


The Other Side of the Coin

by smallsteps32



Series: The Other Side [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 318,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'On the Other Side': This is Deborah's story, from Abu Dhabi to Yverdon and beyond. It's a little like Douglas' story, a little different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abu Dhabi

**Author's Note:**

> So here is my sequel - enjoy

All things considered, waking up to a sparse and chilly hotel room wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. In fact, the lack of heat was enough to urge Deborah out of her cocoon of grotty blankets and into her far warmer (if only because it was cheap and clung to her curves) uniform.

Chances were, she might actually vacate her room in enough time to join the lads for breakfast before they left to sort things out at the airport.

Wouldn’t Martin be pleased. So pleased that he would inevitably find some way to take the credit. Captainly skills had never left the least of an impression on her before, there was no chance that Martin’s, of all people’s, would alter her behaviour to such a degree.

God, he was a pretentious sod, Deborah thought to herself as she shrugged her polyester jacket onto her shoulders and swiped her travel-bag from the bed. It did make her wonder why he was even still _with_ MJN. Anyone with Martin’s disposition should have been long gone within his first week; but _no_ , Captain Crieff had lasted nine long months.

As she retrieved her phone from the bedside table, Deborah glanced down at the slip of glass and plastic in her palm and paused briefly, coming to a steady halt in the centre of the hotel room.

Perhaps she should call Harry and find out whether he was going to be at home when she returned later in the evening, say good morning and wish him a good day. After a moment’s thought, Deborah decided that it wasn’t necessary; he didn’t require his wife to pay him a shred of attention in the morning, settling when she was actually in the house for slight physical affection when he was in the mood.

Later in the day they would chat and discuss their days, sharing dinner (when they weren’t in at different times), and perhaps, if they felt so inclined, they would cuddle, or move to the bedroom. Not often, and the passionate clothes ripping that had taken place to begin with had devolved, but it was nice to have someone there should certain needs arose.

Deborah ignored the imperceptible fizzle of something between the back of her throat and her chest, wrinkling her nose at what was eerily similar to sadness, before discarding it. She didn’t particularly miss Harry on a day to day basis, jetting about the world, but it would be disappointing if he wasn’t at home when she returned. That was love after all.

As she strode through the dank halls towards the bottom of the hotel, avoiding the corners from which oddly furtive odours wafted seemingly from nowhere, Deborah’s mind wandered once again to the infuriating puzzle that was Martin Crieff, as if riddling him out might make his bite easier to swallow.

She supposed that the man’s continued presence in her flight-deck was somewhat her own fault.

She had been the first pilot at MJN, a godsend in Carolyn’s eyes until she had realised just what she had let herself in for; that light had never left Arthur’s eyes, something that only spurred her ego. That privilege had left Deborah with a certain feeling of entitlement over the company, and by extension, who she was forced to associate with.

The first Captain that Carolyn had hired had been dull; thirty years too old for relevant conversation, far too deaf to hear ATC, let alone a word game, and much too interested in the logistics of Thatcherism. So Deborah had tackled this with visceral political views, and the man had thrown in the towel, taking an early retirement from the whole profession.

The second had been around Deborah’s age, and charming in the sense that he wasn’t charming at all, but made an effort to appear so; he had lasted about as long as it had taken him to run his hand up his First Officer’s thigh. Even now, Deborah didn’t know who was angrier about that, her or Arthur, who had caught the tail end of the offended slap from the corner of his eye.

The third had attended one flight, received one day’s wages, and never returned. If she was honest with herself, Deborah was actually intrigued by that particular turn of events; he had let her take control for the entire flight, and simply requested that she do the ‘checks’ as well.

So after much negotiating, Carolyn had promised that Deborah could be Captain; this would mean that she had more control over what went on in the flight-deck, and could eject any unsavoury characters without having to resort to subliminal manipulations.

And then Martin had arrived. There had only been one day’s warning, in which Deborah was told that Carolyn had hired a _Captain_ , and not to ‘take it too hard’. That had been fine; Deborah could accept the lack of promotion, it wasn’t important, not really, not when she _knew_ she would be better than whoever had been hired.

True, she may have told Harry (very excitedly) that she was now Captain, but there was no need to tell him otherwise _now_ ; it would only create embarrassment…and besides, it was the first piece of information that he had shown a real interest in lately.

But _Martin_ …Deborah could say with the utmost certainty that he was the most pedantic, pernicious, stuck-up, pretentious, self-absorbed, irritating man she had ever met.

He didn’t cut the most imposing figure; just taller than her, a few years younger, pale, freckled, ginger, and slim, diminished as she was by his uniform, with an expression like he was balancing a lemon on the tip of his nose. That was fine, she could appreciate that she didn’t have to endure the face of someone twisted and stinking of cigarettes, or mouldy with their hatred of personal hygiene.

Martin had even been pleasant, smiling and introducing himself nervously, with an underlying self-importance, shaking her hand with his own sweaty one, his cheeks flushing as he stumbled over his surprise that she was a woman, and then his frantic attempt to assure her that he was _in no way_ sexist, he was just surprised. That was fine, Deborah was patient enough to allow him to finish his sentences and realise that he _really was_ that bad at other human beings.

Then he had ruined it all the moment that he was left in charge. Martin wasn’t just rule conscious, he was pedantic to the point of dictatorship – fine, she could deal with that. He wasn’t just self-important; he genuinely believed that as Captain he was at the right hand of god – fine, she had dealt with men like that before.

But what really pissed her off, what really made Deborah’s hackles raise and made her tear into him with all the force that she possessed, was the way he treated her. Being Captain apparently meant that he could order her around and ignore her far better advice. If she deviated from CAA approved behaviour by even the smallest margin, he would criticise her – and not just on her behaviour. He would criticise her using anything he had learnt about her, make it personal, make it an attack on her personality, her upbringing, her previous career status – anything to make _himself_ feel superior.

Deborah had no doubts about the fact that Martin despised her. She didn’t despise him, but she knew that she absolutely should.

The problem was…they did get along. When things were going right, when GERTI was functioning and their flight was going to plan, they could get along perfectly well. If she was honest with herself, Deborah would have said that they clicked.

Because she had an inkling, a tiny suspicion that a lot of what she hated about Martin existed purely because he thought that a Captain should be that way, and that he should elevate himself to that level by pushing her down.

Sometimes, he would abandon proper procedure for the sake of something slightly better; it was rare, but she had seen his internal monitor go ‘ _what the hell’_ and go along with _her_ ideas. And he was funny; he was genuinely fun to be around…when he wasn’t being a prick.

That was why she hadn’t driven him out. Because on that first day, that first conversation they had ever had, Martin had been friendly, and he had been funny, and she had genuinely liked him for all of about half an hour.

Granted, his jokes were terrible (and often politically incorrect), but the way that he delivered them, the mixture of pride and excitement that lit up his features, made them the highlight of Deborah’s day.

For all his faults, Martin had the potential to be someone that she would want to be friends with. Save for Arthur, there were very few people that she knew anymore that could fall into that category, and even fewer that were actually _fun_.

Harry was fine…he was okay…but he was her husband, and they were too busy being married on opposite sides of the world to have fun anymore.

Deborah handed her key to the miserable looking woman on the other side of the front desk, who nodded morosely and waved her away. Shrugging off the dismissal, Deborah rearranged the bag strap over her shoulder, and peered through the glass partition that separated her from the dingy excuse for a restaurant.

Right in the corner, shunning the other holiday goers and businessmen, she caught sight of Martin and Arthur seated either side of a rickety table; the Captain was flicking idly through a book, checking his watch every few seconds, and Arthur was shovelling eggs into his mouth at a tremendous speed.

Deborah couldn’t decide whether she should join them for breakfast more often or not. She just hoped that today was going to be one of those flights where they all got along with each other.

oOoOoOo

It hadn’t been one of those flights.

It had started off well, and remained well even as they approached Fitton. Martin was proving to be adept at Brians of Britain, and overall, it had been a pleasant day; there was something enjoyable about bringing out her competitive streak to match Martin’s own. Even when Arthur had entered and given his own flawed contribution to the game, Deborah had good naturedly allowed Bob Holness.

Then Martin had decided that they were diverting to Bristol, and everything went downhill as his ‘command decision’ was called out for its ridiculousness; it _was_ ridiculous.

Arthur had put forward some reasonable arguments, dim, but reasonable, and Deborah had chipped in from the side, hoping to persuade the Captain to embrace the more liberal side of himself that he so rarely exposed and wait to land in Fitton.

Then Martin had been rude to Arthur, and Arthur had responded by asking _Deborah_ what she thought; Deborah momentarily relished the request, not considering for a moment that she might be undermining Martin’s authority – it was her flight-deck.

Martin had then reacted in his typical manner, pushing Deborah from contentment and slight disagreement with him into a flaring self-righteousness and irresistible need to bite back and make sure that she wasn’t talked into submission. The supercilious arse.

It had happened slowly, of course. What had early on in their working relationship been an indignant anger, was now an indignant despairing at the way that she was, and he had brushed off the match trick with a sighed acceptance. That was good.

He ruined it though, by making a jab at the fact that she was no longer at Air England, and that she was in the co-pilot’s seat, raising himself up as Supreme Commander. If it had been said during a normal conversation, Deborah might have laughed playfully, but frankly insulted, she twisted it and used it to mock him, adding salt to the wound by comparing him to a mutinied Captain.

He hadn’t understood the reference, something that gave Deborah pause, and inwardly shake her head at the very _Martin_ response; that might have been the end of it. She might have allowed him that, allowed him to do as he pleased with a shake of her head at the typical ‘Martin behaviour’ – but no.

Martin had to take it one step further. He had to big himself up while simultaneously pushing her to the ground, subordinating her and insulting her in one foul swoop. The word ‘ _sir_ ’ had never been uttered with such bitterness.

She wanted to strangle him; Deborah had felt a surge of visceral rage, but she had merely smirked a sneer and gone about the rest of her duties in silence.

Now Deborah was sitting right in the corner of the sofa in the Porta-cabin, arms folded over her chest, inspecting her nails and watching with a sadistic pleasure as Martin received the dressing down that he deserved.

“Martin, you’re a berk.” Carolyn informed him matter-of-factly, bearing down upon her Captain, who was perched on the other end of the sofa, one arm over the edge and the other making affronted motions in the air.

“I’m not a berk, Carolyn; I’m an airline captain.” Martin insisted, his cheeks flushing in indignation.

Deborah’s smirk grew and she observed as Carolyn turned Martin’s own pedantics on him and nagged him about the money he had wasted. She wasn’t cruel, not really, but after the way he had treated her, Deborah relished then way that he squirmed as he tried to justify his ‘command decision’.

Perhaps the ‘Supreme Commander’ might discover a shred of humility; knowing Martin, probably not. She didn’t know how he could demand respect when he had none for the people that he worked with.

Carolyn turned her wrath on Deborah, but it was hardly adequate for intimidation; this was the scolding of an employer who treated her most valued staff as equals in responsibility, if not in mind – unlike some who treated their colleagues as second class citizens.

“And where were you in all this, Deborah? Don’t tell me you voluntarily went to Bristol.”

Deborah rolled her eyes, making sure that they fell on Martin, who was glaring at her from across the sofa, lips pursed and cheeks red.

“I did suggest an alternative plan to _Sir,_ Carolyn, but Sir quite properly reminded me that _Sir_ is in command, and we should all obey _Sir_ at all times.” She drawled, making sure to maintain eye contact with Martin.

This was his fault, his mistake, and she was damn well going to make sure that he was the one to suffer for it. As an added bonus, perhaps Carolyn might pick up on her tone and realise that anything _she_ had done had been in response to _his_ audacity.

“Who reminded you?” Carolyn demanded, looking between her pilots with a stormy expression that could have made armies waver; she caught Deborah’s gaze for longer than necessary, just long enough for Deborah to catch the underlying message: _I don’t know what’s ruffled your feathers, but you will behave for so long as I am the one paying you._

“Captain Crieff, or – as I am privileged to call him _– Sir_.” Deborah replied succinctly, nodding towards the Captain.

Martin huffed and looked away, before sneaking another glare at Deborah, crossing his arms roughly about his chest and picking at his epaulets.

Carolyn’s eyes shuttered fleetingly in despair, and her shoulders sagged, before she focused in on Martin once again.

 “Martin, you are many things but, believe me, you are not ‘Sir’. If anyone is Sir, I am Sir; and as Sir I am telling you from now on diversions are out.” She informed him, her cheeks hollowing out, making it clear to a practiced Carolyn watcher that her decision was final.

Martin however, was never one to shun an argument. Deborah wondered briefly if it would be worth leaving to find Arthur and entertain herself some other way, but there was far too much a risk of drawing Carolyn’s attention back onto herself, and it was much more fulfilling to watch Martin get cut down to size.

“I see. So if an engine catches fire on take-off, shrug shoulders, keep upper lip stiff and press on for Portugal. Got it.” Martin sniped, slouching back into the sofa, making his uniform crease unattractively.

It was the sort of thing that Deborah might have stifled a small chuckle over, but now she just scoffed under her breath, loud enough for Martin to hear and shoot her a glare with his nose crinkled and his forehead clenched in frustration.

Deborah watched in quiet smugness as Carolyn instructed Martin on their no frills flight to Abu Dhabi, interjecting only once to inquire as to the passengers; it was interesting enough to merely let the scolding wash over her while idly curling the end of a lock of dark brown hair around her finger. Her hair was died as dark as she dared with her slightly peaky complexion, and she somewhat missed when the waves were long enough to properly twirl, playing a leading role in her ‘disinterested’ act, now falling only to her chin.

As Martin flustered over Carolyn’s right to penalise him for rational behaviour, Deborah centred herself back in the present, hearing the end of the conversation near and the need to move approaching.

“Now, please, go and be somewhere else.” Carolyn finished, sounding well and truly done with the both of them. She swiftly retreated into her separate office, slamming the door behind her, leaving a stony silence in her wake.

Deborah shifted so that she was perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to rise but waiting, as Martin remained slumped into the meagre cushions, eyeing her with as much charged discontent as was possible.

“Well done sir. That’s _her_ told.” Deborah drawled, letting her smirk overwhelm her face.

He needed to see _exactly_ what happened when he acted as if he were the more important person in the room; he had to realise when he was beaten.

Martin rolled his eyes and looked away, before returning her stare, pouting petulantly.

“Well, don’t you have somewhere better to be?” he demanded disdainfully, adopting the reedy tone that his voice took on when he was stressed.

Deborah rose to her feet, shrugging away the tension in her shoulders and looking down at the Captain with barely restrained contempt. That was inconsequential though; he had received his talking to, now it was time to let the matter go.

“Hmm…I need to find Arthur before I leave.” She told him as she wandered over to her desk and swept the jacket from the back of her seat.

Behind her, she heard Martin rise, and watched out of the corner of her eyes as he moved towards his own desk, on the other side of the room; it was painfully organised, far more strategically than her own, which was overlayed with various items of stationary and even some impressive origami aeroplanes.

“Why’s that?” Martin inquired; Deborah could tell that despite the clipped and disinterested tone, he wanted to know. It was the way his eyes flickered towards her when he thought that she wasn’t looking.

“I gave him my car keys so that he could throw my bag in the boot.” She replied shortly, sending Martin a false, glimmering smile when he glanced up from where his fingers fiddled with his pen pot, one eyebrow quirked.

“It must be nice that, having someone act as your very own servant.” Martin sneered under his breath; Deborah knew that it was just another dig, but she took offence at the idea that she treated Arthur with anything other than grace.

Deborah stood stiffly between her desk and the door to the Porta-cabin, back straightened as she met Martin’s accusatory gaze with a measured expression.

“You know Martin, when people are nice to each other, sometimes they like to do each other favours.” She remarked lightly, feeling victorious as he looked down at his desk, pretention petering into sheepishness, “Perhaps it’s something you might like to look into.”

With that Deborah left Martin to his own devices, putting him out of mind and striding from the Porta-Cabin and into the breezeless chill of the early evening. She was in a terrible mood, despite the pleasure of watching Martin get put in his place, and all she wanted was to go home.

Perhaps Harry would be in…or he might have one of his evening classes, she wasn’t sure. If he was, Deborah was sure that he’d listen find some way to resurrect what was left of the day. In truth, she just needed someone to complain to.

oOoOoOo

It was far too early to be up and about, and definitely too early to have walked all the way to Carolyn’s from her own house. Harry had still been snoring when she had woken, sprawled on the opposite side of the bed as usual. Deborah didn’t mind; it had started to feel uncomfortable, having someone else _wrapped_ around her when she was trying to sleep, and if she was honest, she could get out of the house much more quickly without the added distraction of having to talk to him.

He had been patient the night before, listening to her once again try to rationalise why Martin was such an arse when they could quite easily be successful should he listen to her advice and calm his neurotic inferiority complex. It was only fair that he be allowed to sleep now.

As the front door to the grand house swung open, Deborah stepped back to allow Arthur to bundle out and shut it behind him. He was looking exhaustingly put together for so early in the morning, but Deborah supposed that one sleepy person was plenty for a half-decent conversation.

“Hi there, Deborah!” Arthur greeted her, grinning as if he were pleased to see her, brown eyes alight with it.

It was actually pleasant to be greeted with such sincerity; if she was ever feeling down, rarer than she thought, but more often than everyone else thought, Deborah could always fall back on the fact that at least _Arthur_ liked to have her around, depressing as that was. He may have been dim, but he had never been anything other than a good friend, and more importantly, a gentleman around her. Unlike _some_ people.

“Morning, Arthur. You’re revoltingly chirpy for half-six in the morning. Where’s your mother?” she inquired as she followed him towards the smart car parked on the driveway.

“She’s just brushing her teeth. She says to wait for her in the car.” Arthur replied; he rounded the opposite side of the car to Deborah, and extending his arm to jab the keys at the driver’s door, switched off the alarm with a beep, letting himself in moments later.

“Um, where’s Martin?” he asked, once they were both seated. Deborah rotated in the passenger seat, kneeling up so that she could address Arthur over the back of her seat.

“Who can predict the movements of the Supreme Commander?” she drawled drearily, rolling her eyes at her own imaginings of Martin sauntering in as if he owned the place, uniform pressed and red hair unsuccessfully slicked back, “Perhaps _God_ wanted to pick his brains about something.”

“How d’you mean?” Arthur asked, confused.

“Never mind.” Deborah shook her head, the movement allowing her to see out of the back window at a better angle; she caught herself as she spotted the very man they had been discussing, marching towards the car, “Ah, but what’s this? Who is this commanding presence hoving into view? Can it be Sir? It can.”

As Martin approached, Deborah decided that they would behave like adults today and make it through the flight as friendly people, if friends was too difficult for him. There was no reason that they couldn’t, save for Martin’s evident dislike of her.

That plan fell to pieces as Martin, _once again_ , tried to lord his superiority over her by acting like a child, and she had no choice but to embrace the malicious joy when Carolyn put her back in the front seat. She knew it was practicality, but there was a small part of her saying, _‘See…_ I’m _the favourite,_ I _win.’_

oOoOoOo

They were getting along now, it was fine.

Apparently a mutual interest in the obscure cargo of their client was enough of a bridge to allow friendly conversation, and that was enough for Deborah to make the effort and allow herself a comfortable flight.

They had even shared a conspiratorial glance over Arthur’s mauling, a sort of ‘ _wouldn’t want to be him’, ‘me neither’, ‘isn’t that nice’_ kind of glance. And in essence, wasn’t that why Deborah made the effort, if not to find some kind of connection with the man.

That in no way changed Martin. No, he was still Martin, whether he was being nice or not. While the three of them were strolling around GERTI’s exterior, towards the steels steps, one of the lads either side of her, Arthur had inquired about how planes fly.

Well, he had asked Martin, but there was no reason that Deborah couldn’t chip in.

“Ah, well. Essentially …” she began, raising her hands in order to use them as makeshift demonstratives in her explanation; it had been a while since she had been able to really show off her knowledge, she had always enjoyed teaching Arthur things and being able to say ‘ _I did that_ ’ when he repeated them correctly.

“Uh, Deborah, he asked _me_.” Martin interrupted, quirking his eyebrow and tilting his head as he looked smugly across at her; Deborah closed her mouth and gestured for him to continue, calm enough to appreciate that he wasn’t being rude on purpose, he was just overly proud of _him_ , “Listen carefully, Arthur. The wing is curved on top but flat on the bottom. When it meets the air, it splits it in two. The air that goes over the top has further to go, so it has to go faster to keep up with the air underneath. That reduces the pressure above the wing, giving us lift.”

“Ah, fantastic! Thanks, Skipper! I totally get it now.” Arthur replied, nodding doggedly to emphasise his point. Deborah had to admit, he wasn’t wrong.

“You’re welcome.” Martin answered, and Deborah sighed as he looked pointedly at _her_. She knew that she was a show off, but Martin took it to a new extreme. That was fine, she could cope with competitiveness; she practically thrived on it.

“Except … why does it have to?” Deborah was broken from her musings by Arthur’s question. His face was pinched in thought, and he was peering between she and Martin expectantly. Trust Arthur to make a simple explanation _more_ complicated.

“Why does what what?” Martin retorted; he stumbled to a halt, and Deborah and Arthur followed. Deborah crossed her arms and looked up at Arthur, who stood about a foot taller than her, his shoulder reaching half way up her head.

“Why does the air on the top have to keep up with the air on the bottom? Why don’t they just split up?” Arthur continued.

There was a pause, and Martin’s eyes flickered to Deborah. She sighed, unsure of what he expected; they were both pilots, and if _he_ didn’t know, chances were, neither did she.

“… For the sake of the kids?” she drawled dubiously. Nevermind…

oOoOoOo

She had thought that things were going well; in fact, Deborah was almost cheerful. The post-take off checks had been swift and Martin had been nice company. Until he reacted in typical fashion to a perfectly reasonable statement.

“Thank you, Captain. Perkins.

“Oh, knock it off, Deborah.” Martin sounded frustrated, as if he had been dealing with her attitude all day. Deborah was the first to admit that sometimes that particular tone was well deserved, but she couldn’t help the pang of hurt at the unwarranted attack. She didn’t _think_ she had said anything to annoy him.

“Knock what off?” she asked, inwardly wincing at the heightened tone of her own voice. Deborah turned ever so slightly so that she could watch Martin’s face tinge red with indignation, and his eyes focus on the sky rather than on her.

“Yes, all right, I’ve never heard of _Captain Perkins_. Happy now? You win again in the game of Referencing Fictional Captains I Don’t Recognise.” Martin stressed, shrugging and shifting with each intonation, “But d’you know, that’s because of instead of reading The Adventures of Captain Perkins while sitting around a posh girl’s school getting all my opportunities handed to me on a plate, I was re-reading Principles of Climatology for Pilots, and underlining bits in red, all right?”

Deborah inhaled deeply, steadying herself. He had to go and make it personal, _every time_. There was no need to, and it was hurtful; the last thing she needed was Martin bloody Crieff belittling everything she said based on her upbringing.

But she could deal with that; Martin was hardly the first man to belittle her, based on anything they could pick out. So she gripped the arm of her seat tightly with one hand, the one farthest away from him, and took the moral high-ground. He may have been a prat, but in nine months she had realised that he didn’t usually mean to be rude (except, it seemed, when she was involved), so she wouldn’t call him out on it.

“All right. Feel better?” Deborah asked lightly, putting on a smile.

“Yes.” Martin answered, sounding guilty now that the words had been said. He glanced towards her, attempted a small curl of his lips, and then looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“Good. I said, “Thank you, Captain. Perkins.” _Brian_ Perkins.” Deborah filled what promised to become an awkward silence.

“Oh. Right. Hanrahan.” Martin replied shortly, bringing the conversation to a close.

oOoOoOo

Deborah was perfectly happy to allow Martin to debate with Carolyn over their disastrous meals; it might even be funny. He had a tendency to make his shrill affronted nature funny, when he wasn’t directing it at _her_ , of course.

So she settled back in her seat, just about listening, until he heard Martin tell her that he cargo hold heating was off. Off.

“On.” Deborah said hastily, raising her voice so that there could be no doubt about what she had said. She knew that her eyes had probably widened with the mental strain of having to think very, very quickly, but she made an effort to keep the rest of her expression cool to match her tone.

“What?” Martin retorted, but Deborah ignored him, leaning instead to place her fingers on the switch for the sat-com, preparing to cut them off from radio contact.

“Sir means on, naturally. It was on. Whoops! Must go now, Carolyn – here comes a mountain. Cheerio!” Deborah said cheerily, clicking the sat-com off the moment that the words had left her mouth so that Carolyn wouldn’t have time to respond.

That done, she slumped back in her seat, confident that Martin had control. The idiot; the absolute idiot, she thought as she pressed the palm of her hand over her eyes and relished the momentary blindness.

Martin…bloody Martin. She couldn’t find it in her heart to be mad at him…it was just so…Martin.

When she opened her eyes, Martin was pursing his lips, cheeks sucked in in such a way that his cheekbones became pronounced, and he looked for all the world as if he were the victim of some tremendous prank.

“Deborah, is this some half-baked revenge attempt? Because, if so, it’s really pointless. Why would she believe I deliberately turned it on?” he asked; Deborah had to fight not to roll her eyes. Honestly, only Martin could believe that _she_ was out to get _him_ considering the way he treated her.

“Why indeed? But I had this sort of feeling you might hope she did, what with the cat in the hold…and all.” Deborah drawled, meeting his gaze across the flight-deck.

The problem was easily solved, but she couldn’t help but allow Martin to suffer just a little longer. There was something very appealing about watching him fluster and splutter and mess up in the most beautifully manner imaginable, sometimes in such a way that if it had been anyone else, it would have had to be orchestrated.

She supposed that it was actually possible to _see_ the information dawn in his mind; his blue eyes widened and his cheeks drained of all colour.

“… Oh God.”

“Precisely.” Deborah remarked, looking down at her nails in an attempt at nonchalance, “I did try to remind you.”

“Oh God.” Martin repeated; having waited a while for Martin to clamber down a peg without the aid of someone else’s shouts, it was too good an opportunity for Deborah not to soak it in. Martin raised his hands to rub them over the bottom of his face.

“Yes.” She interjected, doing her best to repress a smirk as she watched him unashamedly.

“D’you think it’s dead?” Martin asked through his teeth, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. To Deborah’s surprise, although she wasn’t sure what she had expected, Martin looked imploringly to _her_ ; now that was a welcome thought. He may dislike her, but he had faith in her.

Still, she might as well enjoy the Martin baiting while it lasted.

“No, no. Definitely not. Not _yet_.” Deborah replied, her smirk growing as Martin’s expression became more desperate, the flush returning to his cheeks with a fury.

“Oh God!”

“Probably feeling the chill, though.” She teased in a low tone, settling back comfortably and leaning the side of her head against the back of her seat so that she could observe him properly.

Martin scrabbled at his wrist and yanked back his sleeve to look at his tatty watch, still gnawing at his lip.

“What flight time have you got?” he demanded.

“A little under eight hours.” Deborah answered dutifully.

“How long can a cat survive in an unheated hold at thirty-four thousand feet?” Martin inquired, and he actually sounded as if he believed that Deborah might know. She almost wished that she still possessed that kind of hope, but this was eclipsed by the fact that she was finding the whole situation rather funny. He _was_ funny.

“Oh, I used to know this one. It’s always coming up in pub quizzes.” She remarked playfully. Unfortunately, Martin caught onto her antipathy, as he glared at her disparagingly and shook his head.

“Yes, all right.” He sighed, raising one arm up to rest his elbow against the arm of his seat, and to drop his chin into the palm of his raised hand.

Deborah noticed, but did not acknowledge this, choosing instead to squeeze out her fun for as long as she could; it wasn’t often that they could bicker without insulting one another and actually enjoy it. Martin, if not enjoying it, didn’t look bothered, just annoyed, and that was fine.

“Now then, is it three hours and twenty-eight seconds, or is that a weasel in a submarine?” she chuckled, smirk growing into a dim smile when she met Martin’s eyes. He really did look 100% done with the day; perhaps she _should_ ease off him just a fraction.

“You don’t know?” Martin inquired sarcastically; Deborah thought that he might be resisting a smile, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I regret not,” Deborah conceded, glancing back towards the pearly blue of the sky ahead to hide the cheerful expression that she suspected she was presenting, “but I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for the answer being ‘eight hours’.”

“Oh _God._ I’m going to have to kill the client’s cat!” Martin groaned, pushing his hands once again across his face, rubbing as if to rub away the whole mistake.

“It’s looking that way.” Deborah remarked, leaning across to pat his wrist sympathetically. Martin didn’t react save for an imperceptible movement that could have been mistaken for the clicking of the bones in his limb.

“I can’t kill the client’s cat!” Martin exclaimed, throwing his hands down on his lap and looking desperately to Deborah for instruction.

“That’s also true.” She noted, nodding; he nodded in tandem, as if this might help them to formulate a solution. In truth, Deborah knew that all they had to do was ditch in somewhere, but there was, and always would be she assumed, a part of her that wanted to see Martin make these big decisions that he claimed he had rights to and endure the consequences.

“But what else can I do?” Martin asked in despair; he exhaled raggedly, exhausted apparently by the massive moral dilemma that he had walked himself into.

Deborah allowed herself a moment of sympathy.

“I suppose you could always …not that I’m giving you answers Captain, but you could always…” she hinted, making sure to emphasise that she _was_ in fact providing the answers.

“I can’t.” Martin replied firmly, leaving no doubt that he was terrified of Carolyn; Deborah filed that away for later, “I can’t divert. She’ll hunt me down. She’ll actually hunt me down with knives.

“Whereas if we carry on and freeze the client’s cat to death …?” Deborah reminded him; he may have been hilarious to taunt, but she wasn’t about to allow him to get them both in trouble by messing up the job.

“Also knives. Big knives.” Martin agreed, nodding and dragging his lip through his teeth again; it was a wonder that he still had a lip to gnaw, “If we … if we did carry on and the cat didn’t make it, d’you think they’d be able to tell how it died?”

Deborah rolled her eyes at that, shrugging dismissively.

“Again, I fear you flatter my knowledge of cat pathology.” She drawled, inspecting her nails. It was time for Martin to do as he usually would, accept the CAA approved solution, and call in a diversion.

Instead, his expression was thoughtful when she glanced up at him, and he had his hands pressed together as if he were trying to cling to an idea.

“I don’t see how they could.” Martin remarked, as if he were honestly thinking about going ahead with allowing the cat to die, “I mean, it’s not as if it’s gonna freeze into a block of ice, is it?” he chuckled into silence.

Deborah paused before replying; she was suddenly intrigued by the fact that Martin was apparently a devious bastard…and she hadn’t seen it. A few moments passed before she realised that she was staring at his face, trying to absorb and store the expression, and Martin was still waiting for her support.

“Well…I, uh…Not unless it’s a cartoon cat, no.” she said dryly, turning her face away from his to adjust the controls and check the altimeters. Martin’s hands were already there though, thin yet worn, and adeptly taking over without realising that Deborah wanted the distraction.

“I mean, it’s not as if the Cat CSI’s gonna descend on us.” Martin joked, making a motion with his elbow that suggested had they been standing, he would have nudged her in a show of companionable joviality.

Deborah exhaled sharply, the closest to a laugh that she ever got to one of his appalling jokes. It wasn’t laugh out loud funny, or funny at all, but nevertheless, _Martin_ was.

“I wouldn’t have thought so. They’re so _busy_ these days.”

“I mean, I know it’s a bit rotten – for the cat – but ten thousand pounds to divert is quite a lot, isn’t it?” Martin continued to sound almost reasonable, save for the subject matter, “Don’t you think?...What do _you_ think?”

Deborah was mildly surprised to find that Martin was peering at her, looking for all the world as if he genuinely valued her opinion.

“A fair bit rotten...I wouldn’t like to be the _cat_.” Deborah admitted; he should divert, but she wasn’t going to tell him, he could work it out himself, prove that he was not in fact, a cat murderer…or if he was, prove that he was, “Have you considered how Carolyn will react to your decision, whether there will be shouting…”

“… and the knives, yes.” Martin agreed; he was thumbing the controls anxiously, looking between them and Deborah, “So, what d’you think? Is that reasonable? That’s reasonable, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

No, thought Deborah, it’s not. But Martin wanted to be the Supreme Commander, so he would have to deal with all that came with such a title.

“It’s a command decision, sir. All yours.”

oOoOoOo

In the end, all it took was Arthur’s abject horror to convince Martin that perhaps the best course of action would be to _not_ cat a small mammal’s life short. Deborah had taken pity on him and offered up the same match trick as the previous flight…and to her joy Martin had actually agreed.

By the time she was tucked up in her hotel room, which Carolyn had booked both her _and Martin_ into to save money, Deborah was actually in quite a good mood. It had been a good day, all things considered; it turned out all it took was a little cooperation and a little teamwork, and the two of them got along perfectly fine.

And now that she knew how easily swayed Martin could be when the stakes were raised, Deborah could see a lot more fun on the horizon.

Yes, things had gone as well as could be expected. She considered briefly the idea of phoning Harry to tell him about her day, but discarded the thought with a shake of her head; she wasn’t in the mood. No, she’d tell him all about it when she got home, and maybe he’d just listen, maybe he’d have some constructive comments to make.

Whatever, she had had a good day.


	2. Boston

**Boston**

So maybe they hadn’t wanted to lose a day off for the sake of flying to Boston, but in actuality, they would be getting paid for it, and Deborah thought that in all, the day was going well.

She was beating Martin at Simon Says, which was something at least. Even better than winning, which wasn’t a surprise if she was honest with herself, was the fact that Martin was taking it rather well.

He really was far easier to get along with when he wasn’t picking on every little thing that she did that didn’t correlate with his map of the world; he hadn’t been doing that nearly as much as he used to, and she was actually enjoying his company.

True, the discovery that he wanted to desert them for the sake of Easy-jet put a dampener on her mood, but that didn’t need thinking about.

Deborah was just eyeing the Captain deviously, awaiting his next move, taking in the strained thought on his flushed cheeks, when a shrill beeping filled the flight-deck. She moved swiftly, carrying out the checks that had been ingrained over the course of years in the air, even as Martin inquired.

“What is it?”

“Shall I tell you an interesting thing about this thin metal tube full of petrol we’re flying hundreds of miles above the Atlantic Ocean?” Deborah remarked lightly; there was no threat really, just a false alarm.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a little bit of fun at Martin’s expense; it turned out, that when he wasn’t being critical and nagging, a pinch of fluster added to his complexion could create quite a pleasing sight to watch.

“What?” Martin replied, peering at the controls, as if his eyes might see something that she had yet to report to him.

“It’s on fire.” She stated simply, turning her head to smile daintily at him, lest he get _too_ scared; one never knew with Martin.

He could panic at the drop of a hat; quire often _his_ hat, if someone were to sneak up behind him and flick the back of it in such a way that the cap soared from his head. He had been known to react terribly if _someone_ did _that_.

“Deborah…” Martin scolded, his tone laced with despair not yet in the midst of true weariness; she supposed that it was better than being actually scolded, so conceded, smile morphing into a shattering smirk.

“Master Caution Fire, Captain. Smoke detector, passenger loo.” She informed him, watching as his expression lightened with realisation, and he rolled his eyes.

“Ah.” He stated simply.

Deborah watched Martin lean across to the intercom and click it on without another word.

“Carolyn, we’ve got a …”

 _“Yes, I know, I know. Keep your goggles on.”_ Carolyn’s voice filtered through the machine, and Deborah couldn’t help but smile at the frustration that it held, even more so at the indignant huff that escaped Martin’s lips; everything was happening just on the right side of well; today promised to get even better, “ _It’s just stroppy Mr. Leeman in three-B. Hang on.”_

That seemed as if it might be the end of their problems, but ten minutes later, the flight-deck door burst open with its usual creak and swish, and Carolyn appeared in the flesh.

“Martin, give Deborah your hat.” She instructed, without any preamble; when neither of the pilots moved, Carolyn added for emphasis, “ _Do it_.”

“You didn’t say Simon Says.” Martin replied in the most matter-of-fact, unassuming tone of voice that Deborah had heard anyone use.

She had remained silent because she had no clue what Carolyn was talking about, but she had to stifle a repressed laugh behind the back of her hand at the daring simplicity of the Captain’s retort. That only enraged Carolyn further, and she pointedly ignored Deborah to bear down upon Martin, who Deborah couldn’t be sure whether he was watching _her_ or staring bemusedly at the other woman.

“I am not playing your game!” Carolyn growled, clenching her wrinkled yet still bonnily threatening hands at her sides, “The man in the loo refuses to come out, so give Deborah your hat.”

Martin shot a sideways glance at Deborah, who merely shrugged; she had an idea as to what Carolyn was getting at, but Martin was handling things pretty well all things considered, and providing light entertainment while he was at it.

“I’m sure, to you, those two sentences follow another naturally, but I don’t quite see the logic …” he remarked, shooting another sideways glance at his co-pilot.

He had seen her laugh, Deborah realised, and was trying to do it again, the bloody devil.

“I don’t need you to see! I need you to give Deborah your hat.” Carolyn interrupted, her rage mounting; her eyes were burning and she looked as if she might tear the hat from his head, had she the power to remove the earth from its gravitational circuit.

“I don’t want to give her my hat.” Martin replied indignantly, going so far as to reach up and place one hand protectively over the accessory.

Deborah decided that if she had to pick sides, she was feeling far more comfortable on Martin’s side of the field; it wouldn’t do to upset him when they had such a good streak going.

“If it helps, I don’t want to take his hat.” She interjected, doing her best to look sorry and guilty for Carolyn’s sake. Martin nodded gratefully, but there was a layer of disgruntlement in his gaze that he didn’t remove when he looked at her. Of _course_ he would take this as a personal insult, Deborah thought distastefully; it wasn’t _her_ fault.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Why don’t people just blindly obey anymore?” Carolyn raised her hands as if communicating with deities that only she knew, “She needs your hat because I want the captain to go down there and strike terror into his heart.”

“But _I’m_ the captain.” Martin insisted; he sounded so painfully insulted.

That was what triggered all of Martin’s criticisms and putting downs, Deborah knew that; she had made special efforts not to imply that he wasn’t the Captain in order to maintain a friendly atmosphere. Trust Carolyn to blow that up in her face.

“I am only too painfully aware that you are the captain, Martin, but Deborah actually sounds like a captain when she gets going. You weren’t here, but the last time a passenger dared to slap her on the bum, he left the plane in tears he was so terrified.” Carolyn explained her decision in a conspiratorial tone of voice; she glossed over her anecdote, and Deborah looked away to the control panel when Martin’s eyes sought hers, unwilling to delve into it with as much pleasure as Carolyn was, “You’re not going to strike terror into anyone’s heart – unless you chat them up in a bar.”

Deborah heard a huff from beside her, and glanced up just in time to see Martin rising raggedly to his feet, pushing his hat further onto his head.

“Right. Well, let’s just see about that, shall we?”

oOoOoOo

The day did not redeem itself. In fact, it got worse.

Martin returned in tears from his confrontation with Mr Lehman, which dampened the mood. He then ordered Arthur to carry out actions that led to the untimely death of a passenger; never good for business. They had spent hours going back and forth before deciding upon their original route, all in the company of a corpse.

All in all, not a good day for MJN. In actuality, one of the strangest flights that Deborah had ever been on. She couldn’t decide whether it was the passage of time allowing her to see more interesting things, or merely the fact that Martin seemed to attract the most miraculous brand of bad luck she had even seen.

To top it all off, she now found herself sitting in one of the passenger seats, watching Carolyn, Martin, and a stroppy woman in paramedic’s gear arguing over a dead body; even Mr Lehman looked on in despair, and he was dead.

Deborah’s interest perked up as Martin spoke up and made himself heard; her heart dropped as she realised that they were probably going to be on GERTI for hours as a result.

“And … and … I just saw him move.” Martin remarked, with all the grace of someone who knew that they were doing wrong, and was mildly proud of their own genius.

Deborah’s gaze fell onto his face, which was held stiffly and determinedly; it was only small indicators like the slight quiver of his lips and the widening of his eyes that told her he was lacking the confidence that he exuded.

Even so, she couldn’t help but shake her head and hide her smirk behind the back of her hand. The sod…the devious, little shit. She really hoped that this worked, so she sat back and observed.

“No you didn’t.” the paramedic replied, hardly a fool. It wasn’t a very good lie, anyone could see that.

“I absolutely did.” Martin insisted dismissively; he dug his hands into his pockets, a move that on any other man would have projected the suavity of his confidence. On Martin, it hid the nervous clenching of his fingers as he swung them ever so slightly within his jacket.

“This man’s been dead for some time, sir.” The paramedic told him, shaking her head and holding back an irritable grimace.

“I don’t think so. I am telling you: I just saw him move.” Martin insisted airily; he was looking anywhere but at the paramedic. Deborah’s smirk threatened to bubble into a smile and she pressed her hand a little more firmly over her lips.

“What movement did he make?” the paramedic demanded with a practiced calm.

“He did a little wave.” Martin stated; a quick glance showed that Carolyn too was watching him with an unbidden look of surprise and uncertainty on her face.

“I don’t think so.” The paramedic continued to fight him, shaking her head with more vigour as her tone leeched into the antagonised.

“Well, I do think so, and I am an airline captain – the commander of this vessel, and I am willing to swear anywhere that he absolutely did.” Martin replied smarmily; Deborah exhaled sharply at the Martin-ish impressing of his status, even then; of course he couldn’t leave that out, “He gave me a little wave, and then he pointed at you, and then he tapped his watch as if to say, ‘Why aren’t I in the hospital already?’ And then he relapsed into his unconscious state; so it seems to me you can either refuse to take him and I can while away the hours I spend waiting with him filing a complaint against you for negligence, which will tie us all up in endless red tape until I eventually agree that maybe what I saw was just rigor mortis; or you can take him with you now in your big empty ambulance to the hospital to which you are going anyway, and we can all hope and pray he doesn’t die on the way.”

There was a long pause, in which Martin’s expression trembled on the precipice of someone who knew they were pushing their luck and might have to retract their statement, yet he remained determinedly frozen in place; frozen as was the paramedic.

Deborah was eyeing both of them eagerly, praying for the first time that Martin was successful in this one venture.

Then the tension broke, and the paramedic’s shoulder’s sagged as she called out.

“Okay; Lucas – patient seen exhibiting vital signs. Get him on the gurney!”

“Thank you so much.” Martin replied; once the paramedic had walked away, he let out a shaking breath that lasted so long that he must have been holding it in.

Over the next few minutes, the paramedics bustled in and out, Carolyn on their heels making sure that they treated GERTI with a modicum of respect.

Martin turned to Deborah, who removed the hand from her lips, confident that she would not grin with hilarity or squeal with premature pride, and merely smirked a little too brightly and extended her hands to motion for his approach.

Martin’s eyes lit up, and he settled into a relieved smile as he slouched over to take the seat in the opposite row, even going so far as to remove the hat from his head and place it on his knee. He kept meeting Deborah’s gaze, and she struggled to keep it, overwhelmed as she was by the joy that Martin seemed to radiate.

“That went well?” he asked once the cabin quieted; Deborah realised that he was genuinely asking for her opinion, scared, as if he might have made a mistake that he wasn’t aware of.

“Yes, Martin, that went very well.” Deborah assured him, noting his relieved sigh, “You got rid of the body that you accidentally made.”

Martin rolled his eyes and shook his head, lifting a hand to run exhaustedly over his face.

“That did go well, didn’t it.” This was more a confirmation than a question.

It occurred to Deborah only as they were exiting the plane that perhaps she had been a little too congratulatory. It wouldn’t do to raise his ego too much; Martin already looked as if he would tell every third person he met about his heroic feat.

That was alright though…he couldn’t do too much damage.

oOoOoOo

The quiet that stretched across the flight-deck wasn’t uncomfortable, wasn’t as forced as some that Deborah had endured in the time that she had worked with Martin; the engines still whirred rhythmically, GERTI still clattered every now and then, and it was easy for the two of them to rest within their own spheres of thought while keeping a shard of consciousness focused sharply upon the control panel.

Martin was still stewing over the Easy-jet interview that he was destined to miss, of that she was sure; if there was one thing that could be relied upon, it was the regimented predictability of their Captain.

Or so she had thought until recently; Martin, it seemed, had a secret, hidden fun side that was as devious as it was elusive. It was the sort of thing that made Deborah sit up and pay attention without her even realising until after the fact.

She would be lying if she said that she hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed his manipulation of the paramedic. It was moments like that which gave her an inkling of why she made the effort to try and be friendly with the man.

With Martin; Deborah had to keep reminding herself not to create such a mental disassociation between them, in an attempt to perhaps ease their way in the real world.

Which is why upon leaving Boston, Martin was clenched in his seat, the lithe fingers of one hand tapping a disjointed tune onto the arm while the other hand supported his pinched and thoughtful face, thinking about his lost interview, and Deborah was folded neatly into her own seat, looking out at the sky while keeping one eye on the Captain, thinking about him thinking about the interview.

She was sorry, she supposed, that he had missed it; then again, it was his own fault, and no matter how disgruntled he looked, Martin was a big boy and could handle his own disappointments without pats on the back to make him feel less accountable.

On the other hand, Deborah couldn’t help but be just a little bit pleased, which led to a surge of bitterness. She had thought that Martin was beginning to like working with them, beginning to become accustomed to MJN’s wily ways. Apparently that was not the case.

Apparently his friendly demeanour with Arthur was just a mask for apathy. Apparently any disjointed camaraderie that he had built up with _her_ was just filling the time before he moved on and left them to rot at the back of his mind in the same way that everyone else looked down their noses at their ramshackle company. Apparently her companionship was too distasteful for him to want to spend longer than necessary in her presence.

Deborah was the first to admit that they were barely a proper airline, but damn it, MJN mattered. They mattered, and if Martin wanted to use them to fill his time before moving on to the next _proper_ job, then so be it, but she wasn’t going to budge, and she wasn’t going to try and talk him out of it.

“Deborah?”

Deborah turned towards the tentative voice, the subject of her musings wafting just below the surface as she took in the tense posture and sheepish blush to the Captain’s cheeks.

“Yes, Martin?” she replied, neither positively nor negatively, allowing him to decide whether or not to proceed.

Martin clearly took the lack of sarcastic remark to mean that she was listening and rapt with attention, as though his eyes refused to meet her, he continued in a tone that tried to be jaunty but revealed all too much of his inner wonderings.

“I was just…I, uh, I really made a hash of things today didn’t I?” he asked, finally looking up to meet her gaze with a self-deprecating flicker of a smile.

That was new.

“Well…yes and no.” Deborah remarked, offering her own thin smile in recompense. It had been a long day, and she decided at the last minute that perhaps Martin’s show of modesty earned him her kindness rather than the many jabs that she could have thrown at him had she wished to.

“Yes and no?” Martin repeated, eyebrows pinching in confusion; he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth and continued to hold her gaze as if for once he was actually willing to listen to what she had to say.

“ _Yes_ in the sense that you ordered MJN’s first public execution and then got yourself arrested for an entirely fictitious crime,” Deborah explained, nodding at the right moments to emphasise her words, enjoying the fleeting shock, followed by realisation, followed by accepting resignation that Martin exuded, “ _No_ in the sense that you outwitted that _villainous_ paramedic and temporarily earned your stripes.”

Martin sighed, and to Deborah’s relief, nodded with an agreeable hum under his breath, closing his eyes momentarily as of to let the stresses of the day bleed away in the absence of light.

“That’s what I _mean._ ” He stated, making a definitive motion with his hand; Deborah nodded imperceptibly and waited patiently for him to get his thoughts in order, knowing by then that even trying to help him to the mark would create more confusion than necessary, “It’s…do you think-” Martin cut himself off and shook his head, pursing his lips in determination as his blue eyes met Deborah’s own with a steely glint, “Do you think that if I’d just sat back and let _you_ go talk to Mr Lehman, he would still be alive?”

Deborah was thrown for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the raw openness that Martin was laying out on a metaphorical plate for her to pick at and provide with answers as she pleased. She knew that she was holding herself particularly stiffly, but she didn’t want to make him feel as if she were mocking him by sprawling as she usually would.

“Oh, _Martin_ …he had a heart defect, he was going to go sooner or later.” She assured him; he didn’t look convinced, so she continued hastily, “You merely facilitated the sooner.”

“But maybe if you had talked to him, he might have done as he was told.” Martin insisted, sounding nothing if not disappointed with himself.

“As charming as it is knowing that you hold me in such esteem, Martin,” Deborah almost drawled; an uncertain fluttering took root in her chest, but it didn’t quite eclipse the bitter churning in her gut, “I don’t think that would have been the case.” as, Martin opened his mouth to argue, Deborah carried on, raising a hand to silence him, grasping at the rarity of the situation to finally make him hear her, for once, “Look at it this way; what did he say to _you?_ ”

Martin made a face, shrugging dismissively and checking the dials as if subconsciously.

“He insulted my job, my uniform…everything!” he exclaimed, indignant to the last, “He showed me _no_ respect whatsoever.”

She had suspected as much, but Deborah needed the confirmation to add substance to her own point. Try as she might, she wasn’t quite able to hold his gaze as she spoke.

“Mr Lehman was the kind of man that had no respect for those that he didn’t feel needed respect.” She explained in a measured tone, keeping her eyes down, “He had no respect for the Captain of an airline, the man who held his life in his hands, and he had no respect for the CEO of the entire company, who had the authority to remove him from the aircraft.” Deborah inhaled and exhaled slowly before pushing on, “What makes you think that he would have any respect, any inclination to listen, to a _woman_ in an even lesser position of authority? You did as good a job as could have been done given the circumstances.”

When she looked up, Martin’s face was contorted into a picture of disbelief, which she supposed was complimentary, and yet mournful, as he didn’t understand at all.

“But it’s _you_ ,” he retorted, gesturing towards her in an all-encompassing movement, “All you’d have to do would be to go in there, have a few words, and then they’d do whatever you had told them to do – _you’re_ authoritarian, you don’t even have to _try_ , it practically radiates off of you.”

Deborah sighed; she allowed her hands to drift toward her waist, and for her fingers to fiddle mindlessly with her epaulets. She shook her head drearily as she spoke.

“Martin, being respected is like being treated like a Captain, it’s not about what _you_ do, it’s about how _others_ perceive you…you are the most authoritarian person I know, the reason that nobody thinks that you are the Captain is that they don’t perceive you to be so.” She elucidated, sighing into her explanation with a weariness that she tried so hard to push away during the day, “You can make them see you as a Captain by altering the way that you appear, looking less eager; people will then see you as a Captain and treat you accordingly…unfortunately, no matter how much I alter my appearance, I will still be ultimately female…those that see me as such will continue to treat me as such…Mr Lehman wouldn’t have listened to me, you did fine.”

“But you being a woman doesn’t make any difference!” Martin argued, then he looked at Deborah; he really looked at her, his eyes lingering on her face for longer than it had before; his features softened, and his eyes lost some of their heat as he looked genuinely upset, “It doesn’t make a difference to _me_.”

The flutter returned, and Deborah couldn’t reply immediately, choked as she was by the gratefulness that threatened to leap into speech against her will. Her fingers tightened around the rough material of her sleeves, and she swallowed before replying.

“That’s because, despite all your flaws Martin, and there are many, you remain, at heart, a decent bloke.” She remarked, smirking without any real intention, so quickly that it disappeared before she was truly aware of it.

To her pleasure, she seemed to have caught _him_ off guard, and he appeared unsure of how to respond to such words of kindness. Martin merely nodded, pushing a hand to his head, as if to run through his red hair, instead knocking his hat back and forcing himself to readjust it. After a muted, restrained smile that adorned his deliciously flushed cheeks, Martin’s hand shot out to begin requesting a weather report, and Deborah began sifting through her mind for a suitable word game.

Anything to leave behind the serious talk and enter the controlled tedium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I said no updates for a while, but I'm a bad person that fics instead of sleeps, but that's okay, because here is a chapter  
> Comments and criticisms are always welcome, they can help me improve the narrative


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude between Boston and Cremona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this interlude, but it's sort of stuck in my head - see what you think

It was one of those merciful days when the crew were on standby, Carolyn had locked herself away in her office with no apparent inclination to check up on her employees, and Martin was content to sit and work his way through the sparse paperwork that had accumulated on his desk.

The sun was shining, Harry had departed that morning in a cheery mood, dropping a kiss on her cheek in a way that she hadn’t realised that she had missed, and all in all, Deborah was in a mood so high that little could puncture its lazy flight.

She was so amiable in fact, that when Arthur had mentioned wanting to alleviate his boredom, she had been all too pleased to join him.

Which was how Deborah found herself, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows until they scratched at the inner flesh, smart shoes abandoned by the porta-cabin door so that her feet wouldn’t ache, standing with one hand on her hip, the other tilted against her forehead against the tickling rays of sunlight, waiting for Arthur to throw a Frisbee that he had found behind his sofa.

They had moved onto the grass a short distance away from the porta-cabin in order to avoid smashing any windows. Deborah hadn’t admitted it to Arthur, and he hadn’t thought to ask, but the decision had been made in part to avoid letting Martin hear what they were up to; it wasn’t that she didn’t want his company, quite the opposite in fact.

If Martin were to remove the stick from his backside, he could have been a fun addition to their impromptu game. As it stood, the stick remained firmly wedged, and Martin would only try and order them back to work.

That didn’t matter though; it had been just she and Arthur for a while before he arrived, all those months ago, and sometimes it still felt as if nothing had changed. Sometimes it didn’t, but Martin didn’t make it easy, even when he tried.

“Okay, Arthur!” Deborah called out over the sizable gap between them, “This time, I might find it easier if you throw the Frisbee _towards_ me.”

It wasn’t the most thrilling game, but it passed the time. She might even get a tan if she was really lucky, as she often was.

Harry might like that…though he probably wouldn’t notice.

Martin would definitely comment when he noticed; as he had become just a fraction more comfortable with his colleagues he had developed a tendency to point out each and every thing he noticed that didn’t fit his scheduled world. At the very least, it was an attempt at friendship, and Deborah wasn’t going to stop him.

“Right…” Arthur replied, grimacing sheepishly as he met Deborah’s gaze, “Sorry about that.”

“No, no, that’s perfectly alright.” Deborah assured him with a brief smile and a truncated nod; she kept her one hand pressed against her forehead as a temporary visor, and extended the other to hang at her side in preparation.

Expecting that she would need to run given Arthur’s shoddy aim, she rocked between her heels and her toes, noting with a blast of nostalgia the sensation of the grass sneaking softly through her tights to stroke at her toes. It didn’t hurt, she supposed, to stoop to Arthur’s level of childlike enjoyment in an attempt to remain young at heart.

She watched Arthur, whose scarlet sleeves were also wedged up to his elbows, as he navigated his too long arms around his too tall torso, twisting and bending his too gangly legs, while a focused, single minded expression adorned his face.

He glared at the disk in his hand; if Deborah hadn’t known that it was Arthur, she would have said he was weighing up mass alongside speed, angle, and the effect of the light breeze of Frisbee trajectory.

“Hurry up, Arthur,” Deborah called drearily, “I’ll sprout roots if I stand here much longer.”

“Sorry!” Arthur shouted back; with an almighty backswing, and an apparent forgetting of any preparation that he had just made, Arthur hurled the disk into the air, tripping ever so slightly as his feet hit the ground.

To Deborah’s surprise, the Frisbee did actually soar in her direction, soared in a perfect line towards her…only about six feet above any height that she could ever hope to reach. She made a leap for it anyway, stretching her hands into the air above her head and hopping onto the tips of her toes.

She caught Arthur’s eye as she turned to follow its path, rolling her own in what would have been simple companionable despair, had she not seen at the last moment where the toy landed. It collided with a clatter on the roof of the porta-cabin.

Deborah didn’t hear the rustle of movement that she would have expected from Arthur, so assumed that he too had frozen mid wince at the sound. She waited for another few seconds, but when it seemed that neither Martin nor Carolyn had noticed the noise, Deborah allowed her shoulders to sag and turned back to Arthur.

Arthur was still pinched, his shoulders near his ears and his hands raised as if to begin an objection or out forward a suggestion, his teeth showing as he held his grin awkwardly at his mistake.

“Sorry…” he offered, and then the light in his eyes shifted as it was wont to do, “I’ve been saying sorry a lot today; I’ll stop now, sorry – oh, oops, sorry, oh _sorry-_ ”

“Arthur, please do stop.” Deborah sighed, pressing her hand over her eyes for a brief respite, “We’ll just have to find something else to do…preferably something less active; I’m not quite as fit as I used to be.”

It was true; now that she wasn’t focused solely on a thin sheet of plastic, she became painfully aware of the fact that her breathing was just a little too laboured to be good considering how little she had actually done. The heat beating down on them didn’t help. If she was honest, Deborah was actually thinking about returning to watch Martin do paperwork; it would allow her time to clear her mind after listening patiently to Arthur’s sometimes profound, mostly inept chatter.

While she remained stationary, wrapping one arm around her chest to mask her breaths and the other returning to its place shielding her from the uncomfortable strips of light, Arthur wandered to her side, providing a small amount of shade to make up for his next request.

“But _Deborah_ , what about my Frisbee?” Arthur emphasised his discontent with the very idea of doing something else, “What if I need it later?”

Deborah looked up at Arthur, meeting his imploring gaze with nothing but disapproval; she extended her arm and pointed sharply at the porta-cabin, making sure that he was following the gesture and facing the right way rather than staring her down from his superior height.

“ _Arthur_ , it’s on the _roof._ ” She stated plainly, “What would you like me to do? Climb up on the porta-cabin and fetch it?”

“That would be great actually.” Arthur remarked, making it sound as if she had just offered to do him a massive favour.

Damn him, Deborah thought bitterly, damn him and his stupid face. She didn’t want to climb onto the roof, probably scuffing her knees and greasing her skirt while she was at it, but when he gazed down at her, with such a fixed expression of trust (and presumption), she just didn’t have to energy to say no.

She’d like to see _Captain Crieff_ try and argue his way out of it; perhaps she could engineer a situation where that was possible. Later though; now she had to exhale in a put upon manner and make Arthur realise just how much she did for him.

Deborah’s shoulders sagged and she made a point of rolling her head back as she stared up at Arthur with as much weary fury as she could muster while maintaining an air of eloquence.

“ _Fine_ …but you have to lift me up so that I can reach.” She conceded; Arthur’s face lit up, which made it at least partly worth the effort. Let no one say that Deborah Richardson never did anything for anyone.

Arthur led the way back to the porta-cabin, looking this way and that as if they were about to perform an illegal feat. Deborah followed a second behind, slowing as she approached and placing her fingers delicately around her chin as she peered at the gutter and edge of the serrated iron that rimmed the top. It wasn’t too high up, and with Arthur’s help, it wouldn’t be difficult for her to scale.

“Put your hands out,” Deborah muttered, thumping Arthur gently on the arm to prompt him into action; he obediently placed his hands together, but she had to push them down, “No, down – like a foot hold-” it took a few minutes, the two of them huddled together in front of the porta-cabin door, Deborah hooking one hand around Arthur’s shoulder so that she could balance a foot on his laced fingers, but they managed eventually to settle into a comfortable position; Deborah made sure to hold Arthur’s gaze and tell his seriously, “Now, lift me up, and I can get a hold of the gutter to pull myself up. It is very important that you _do not drop me_ – do not let me fall backwards, or slip, or plummet to my death, do you understand?”

“I understand – I won’t drop you, I promise.” Arthur reassured her, raising his eyebrows demonstratively.

Deborah nodded and allowed him to begin lifting her up; he may have been a clot, but she could trust him not to let her injure herself. He was very careful about that kind of thing.

She kept a tight grip on Arthur’s shoulder, detachedly worrying that she might be hurting him, but more concerned about the fact that she was wobbling a substantial amount, and noting inwardly that she could do with increasing her upper body strength.

After much heaving and huffing, Deborah managed to hoist herself into a sitting position on the edge of the porta-cabin roof; she could feel the cold leaking through her skirt, and her stomach ached from where it had pressed against the sharper edge of the iron, but there was something fulfilling about her feat. At least as far as she was concerned.

“You alright, Deborah?” Arthur called up to her in a stage whisper; he was being extra cautious in case his voice carried through the door.

With all the noise they had made getting her up there, with her feet clipping the chipped wood a couple of times, she wouldn’t be shocked if Martin knew they were outside, but simply couldn’t be bothered to check what they were up to. A fine superior officer he was turning out to be.

“Just fine Arthur.” Deborah replied; she leaned across the metal, making sure to keep her torso raised at least an inch from the filth, and plucked the Frisbee from where it lay tauntingly, “Here, I hope you’re happy now.” She flung it off the edge, and was fleetingly pleased when it bounced pitifully off of his head.

“Brilliant, thanks Deborah.”

She sighed as Arthur grumbled at the impact on his skull and preened at the return of his toy, taking a moment to admire the view. The airfield did look lovely from this angle, and at certain times of day, she supposed that it might be nice to sit atop the porta-cabin and watch the smaller private planes whizz about doing their circuits. Then again, that was more Martin’s idea of fun.

It was time to get down; if anyone saw her up there, there would be hell to pay in terms of health and safety.

“Arthur, help me down would you?” Deborah instructed, motioning with both hands towards herself.

“Righto.” Arthur muttered, dropping the Frisbee to the ground and turning to extend both arms upwards in a sort of expectant embrace; even he didn’t look too sure about it, his eyes scanning the rooftop as if picking the faults out with a thread.

Deborah watched him from the corner of her eye, and as she shuffled towards the edge of the roof, she realised that descending might not be as graceful as ascending had been. She wasn’t afraid of heights, but there was a small, rather rational side of her, that was afraid of breaking her ankle. Leaping into Arthur’s awaiting arms seemed likely to precipitate such an event.

“Um…Deborah, I don’t think jumping down is a good idea…” Arthur remarked uncertainly, scratching the back of his neck with one of the hands that he was still holding out just in case. They seemed to be hanging in the air more as a precaution than a provision.

“I gathered.” Deborah drawled; there was no sense in delaying the inevitable, so she gritted her teeth and began turning as slowly as possible in preparation for her potential plunge, “Arthur, I need you to stand right next to the door, and keep your arms up to help me down. I’m going to lower myself backwards using the gutter, you just need to help me with the last drop.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, and uttered a few words that meant little to Deborah, save that he would be there should she actually fall. She didn’t think she would, good luck and all that, but it was nice to have the option of safety should failure chose to take her at such an inopportune moment.

Everything went fine; Deborah lowered herself awkwardly, painfully over the drop, keeping a tight hold on the edge of the roof and the gutter, and felt her lower half knock against Arthur’s waiting form. It was just as she was lowering her upper half, dropping down so that she was hanging from the roof by her arms that things went wrong. Typical, she thought to herself in the moments that rushed past before she could do anything to stop them.

The suddenness of the drop and the change in balance was enough to break her grasp on the gutter. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long drop, and Arthur had a tight hold on her, but Deborah cursed nonetheless, releasing some of her less the ladylike language. The force of the drop send the two of them crashing into the door to the porta-cabin…and then through the door, which cracked horrendously as the lock bent, and they both fell with a thud to the floor, all in the space of a few seconds.

Deborah landed partly upon Arthur, who ended up back to the floor, wincing at the impact; she pursed her lips indignantly, and tried to hoist herself into sitting position, only to find that their legs were still untangling themselves. She managed to sit up, legs splayed either side of her, and arms held stiffly to each side, hands firmly on the ground.

It was only when she glanced upwards that she remembered that Martin was at his desk, staring at the two of them with a barely contained affronted flush, and utter confusion in his eyes.

“What are you two _doing_?” he demanded, though the usual heat was vacant, replaced by bewilderment; he rose from his seat to stride across the room, and Deborah scrambled to her feet so that she could intercept him.

It was a hastily executed plan, she realised, but it had to be done; Arthur could pick himself up.

“Are you not familiar with toppling, Captain?” Deborah drawled as Martin slowed to a halt before her, peering around her shoulders at the door that hung open, allowing the slight breeze to waft in; she almost went so far as to place restraining hands on his chest, but held herself back, her palms hovering about an inch above his shirt, “It happens when one loses their balance.”

“Yes, I _see_ that you fell over – my question was what were you _doing?_ ” Martin shook his head as he continued to look past her, “And did you break the door?”

“Ah, funny that you should focus on the door, as that if actually more important than what we were doing-” Deborah deflected; as Arthur kept his head down and wandered over to the other side of the porta-cabin, a wise move, Martin placed a hand on Deborah’s shoulder and moved her out of the way so that he could stride to the door.

He ignored Deborah’s statement, and her indignant huff at being positioned, and instead, with narrowed eyes, pushed the door shut; it fought back a fraction, as it hadn’t done before, and when he went to open it again, the lock jammed, and he had to jiggle the entire block of wood, making it rattle ominously before popping open with a more violent swing. Martin slammed it shut again before turning back to Deborah, who had remained in the centre of the room.

She couldn’t even start to formulate an excuse before she was sure how Martin was feeling regarding the whole event.

“You _did_ , the two of you have managed to break the lock.” Martin nodded towards the door; so it seemed that he was worried about property damage. That was an easy bullet to dodge.

“Arthur, leave us.” Deborah instructed; something about her tone of voice was enough to stop Arthur was putting up a fight as he might have otherwise, and he quickly vacated the room, disappearing into Carolyn’s office; not the best, but it would do for a short while.

That just left Martin to deal with, who had taken Arthur’s exit as a chance to walk back to his desk and perch upon the outer edge, staring expectantly at Deborah, one eyebrow quirked as high as his hairline.

“Before you come up with any excuses-” Martin began, sounding as if he were about to exact his captainly duties against his will; he even gestured his hand in the air as if to placate her for the inevitable blow.

“No excuses Martin, simply a proposition.” Deborah interjected swiftly, folding her arms over her chest and treading closer, until she was standing a few feet in front of him, smirking confidently.

Martin’s eyes widened suspiciously, and his hand fell to grip the desk unconsciously. But he didn’t protest immediately at the prospect of manipulating proper procedure; not that there was any proper procedure, he wasn’t even in charge of property damage.

“What sort of proposition?” Martin inquired, his frown growing as her smirk increased.

Deborah chuckled lowly, making sure to hold his gaze. This was good; she could get him on side, and perhaps keep him on side for the future.

“A proposition in the sense that _you_ don’t tell Carolyn about this little incident.” She explained, watching for his reaction; he kept his expression inquisitive, and he rolled his eyes at her statement, but he was listening, “If none of us talk, then she can’t charge us for repairs; it’s such a small job that she’ll probably just leave it rather than try to split the bill between us.”

“And what do I get?” Martin asked, nodding in understanding, “If I keep quiet. What do I get in return?”

Deborah sighed; she had known that she would get nothing from Martin for free. She smiled salaciously and, glancing momentarily to Carolyn’s closed door as if the woman might hear them, took another step towards Martin.

“I’ll do the next walk around.” She promised.

“And pay me a compliment about how good a Captain I am.” Martin added, raising his nose ever so slightly as his features turned smug.

Of course; well, Deborah knew better than anyone when sacrifices needed to be made.

“Oh Captain, _my_ Captain, you’re such a wonderful Captain.” She drawled, making sure to let her eyes bore into his; if he wanted a compliment, he could have a compliment, but she didn’t have to mean it, “I truly have never had a Captain quite like you…you are, a super Captain.”

Martin’s lips thinned into a line, and his cheeks hollowed enough that his cheekbones became particularly prominent; he looked unhappy, but Deborah wasn’t going to retract her statement.

“Good enough.” Martin said eventually, he pushed himself to his feet, closing the space between them and extending a hand; Deborah had to supress a scoff at his attempt at taking the high road, “You do the next walk around, and we have a deal.”

“Deal.” Deborah agreed, and with that, she grasped his hand in hers.

His hand was firm, and larger by far than hers, large enough that his fingers could wrap fully around hers during the shake. Deborah glared wickedly into Martin’s eyes as he glared back, obviously trying to impress upon her the fact that _he_ had won, even though he hadn’t really, even as their arms moved between them.

As a last thought, just to throw him off, just to freak him out, as Deborah felt Martin begin to remove his hand from hers and step back, she squeezed it even tighter, feeling her smirk growing. To her surprise, save for a widening of his eyes, and a splash of red on his cheeks, Martin’s only reaction was to squeeze back twice as hard, continuing the up and down movement, lips pursing as he glared challengingly down.

Oh, he was fighting again. This was hilarious. It was also extremely unnerving to be standing so close, shaking hands far beyond the point of social correctness, no matter how much Deborah wanted to battle with Martin in that moment. He clearly felt the same way, as his steely determination was dissolving into a nervous smile, and his eyes leapt to a spot of the floor somewhere near his feet.

Without a word, Deborah broke away, and Martin cleared his throat; they both wandered back towards their desks on opposite sides of the porta-cabin. If they spent the next few hours making faces at each other, then no one was any the wiser.


	4. Cremona

**Cremona**

It was late enough in the evening that they had needed to switch on GERTI’s interior lights; as a result, the flight-deck was bathed in sharp orange light that cast juxtaposed shadows on the unhappy mechanisms. The juddering purr of the engines had been silenced almost an hour before, and Arthur had bumbled from the plane to go about his own chores shortly after.

At the end of most flights that impeded upon their nights, Deborah would vacate the airfield as quickly as possible, with Martin close on her heels until he headed towards his own presumably humble abode.

Unlike most flights, Deborah found herself, to her own partial surprise, slouched comfortably sideways in her pilot’s seat, legs hanging through the gap in the fraying arm, spending her first few minutes free from work in Martin’s company.

Martin too was slouched, in as much as Martin could slouch while buttoned to the nines, with his hat resting proudly on the control pane, an easy going smile tugging at his lips while a pale blush spread across his cheeks.

This was as close to spending time together outside of work that they had ever got, and it was enough to reassure Deborah that the flickers of faith that she had begun to feel in regards to Martin as a colleague were not baseless.

She could probably have headed home to see Harry, but the man made her wait often enough; it was his turn to be patient.

It was a far better use of her time to play games with Martin; it was actually enjoyable, and Deborah found that it made it just a little easier to get to know him. Working together would get difficult soon if they didn’t find some way to communicate that wasn’t forced and restrained.

She had just concluded slipping Sinatra songs into a fake cabin address, topping her effort off with a trilling flutter of her hand in the air, and a saucy wink as her voice dropped into a smooth octave that even she felt moved by. She felt a certain degree of pride at the chuckle that escaped Martin’s throat, the way it made his chest stutter ever so slightly as he nodded and traced his eyes over her face appraisingly.

“Very good, very good.” Martin acknowledged, shifting in his seat and relaxing his arms so that he could intertwine his fingers loosely together over his lap, “Okay, my turn.”

“All right.” Deborah agreed; she pursed her lips in thought, “Er, do ‘Come fly with me’.”

Martin grinned smugly, extending his arms to crack his knuckles before leaning over and pressing the intercom, which reacted with a tuneful ‘bing bong’.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen.” Martin said in his most professional tone of voice; he snuck a sideways glance at Deborah, and she nodded for him to continue, “On behalf of MJN Air, I’d like to invite you to – _come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…”_

He has a lovely voice; that was the first thing to run through Deborah’s mind as Martin’s voice dropped at least two octaves and filled the porta-cabin with a smooth sound. He even made the head and hand movements to emphasise his tune.

Deborah pressed sideways into her seat, head resting forcefully on the padding as she bit her bottom lip momentarily and held her arms stiffly to prevent herself from bringing them together across her chest; she was entertained briefly by an image of herself as a teenager shrinking in on herself at a dashing celebrity, but dispelled it quickly. She was too old to coo over _anyone_.

Though he did have a _lovely_ voice…she inhaled sharply.

“You know Martin, you have a lovely voice.” Deborah told him, eyes following his expression closely; she hadn’t meant to say that, she just hadn’t been able to _not_ say it. Damn, he wasn’t going to let the compliment lie, was he?

Martin straightened his posture, shoulders rising, and he looked at Deborah with a wide eyed expression of pleasurable surprise. His long fingers clasped anxiously around the ends of his seat’s arms.

“Oh, do you think so.” He replied, smiling shyly. Deborah supposed that it wasn’t too bad; he wasn’t gloating, or preening as she had suspected he might, as his normal prissiness would recommend. Instead, he seemed genuinely flattered by the idea…did he really think so much of her opinion?

“Well, you’re not _bad_.” Deborah amended, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t still pressed into the back of her seat. She mused that her current position was quite comfortable, all things considered, and it made it far easier to face Martin during a discussion.

Martin quirked his eyebrows and rolled his eyes, nodding in resigned acceptance; the smile didn’t quite fade from his lips, and Deborah noticed that once or twice his eyes flickered towards her, as if waiting for her to whip the metaphorical carpet from beneath his feet. It was hard not to be a little bit insulted at the lack of faith he had in her.

Before Deborah could comment, the radio buzzed, and Carolyn’s voice filtered through, an unwelcome reminder of what they had initially decided to avoid.

 _“Martin, Martin, what on earth are you doing?”_ Carolyn demanded; Martin winced and shot Deborah a sheepish look, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth.

“Carolyn! I … hel… yes, nothing.” He spluttered, cheeks flushing; typical, Deborah thought, that certain things were fine to do at rest, but should your employer call up, it became _crippling_ to admit to singing.

Or perhaps he was embarrassed to have stayed to spend time with _her_ ; now that _would_ be ironic, she thought bitterly.

 _“What’s going on in there? You’ve been on stand for half an hour. I’ve been waiting for you in the porta-cabin.”_ Carolyn continued to push for information; for someone who claimed not to care what her crew for up to, she wasn’t half nosy.

“ _Yes._ We saw your light was on and we thought you might still be there.” Deborah drawled; she swivelled in her seat and rolled her shoulders, shaking away the comfort of the last ten minutes with a shake of her head that let a few loose strands of hair fall over her face.

 _“But you didn’t come in!”_ Carolyn insisted.

“ _No_. We saw your light was on and we thought you might still be there.” Deborah repeated; Martin sent her one of his ‘is that necessary’ glares, with a ghost of his smile behind it. She merely shrugged and looked away, hearing him sigh in response.

 _“Well, come in now. I want to talk to you. Well, heaven knows that’s not true, but I have things to tell you.”_ Carolyn explained; Deborah exhaled an almost groan as the radio clicked off.

With only the minimal amount of chatter, too miffed by the loss of whatever companionable air that they had created, Deborah followed Martin reluctantly from the flight-deck.

oOoOoOo

Hester Macauley was a bitch. Deborah wasn’t usually quick to make that kind of snap judgement, but Hester Macauley, was a bitch. There was just something about the woman that made her hackles rise.

Deborah wouldn’t react, she wouldn’t be anything other than pleasant; that didn’t mean that she couldn’t stew inwardly at the audacity of the woman. The audacity; she thought that she could just stride onto _her_ plane and act as if she owned the place, ordering around _her_ crew.

She had had no choice but to step in when the dreadful woman had begun to turn on Arthur; he may be a clot, but he was a good natured clot, and no film star got to treat him like dirt because they didn’t bother to find that out. The fact that she hadn’t been grateful, or courteous, was one thing, but it would be a dark day when Deborah allowed Arthur to quiver under the glares of an unsavoury passenger; he had returned the favour plenty times enough when her physique attracted unwanted attention.

But the worst thing, the _worst thing_ , was the way Martin had turned from an upstanding, proud (but prissy and pernicious) man who was firm in his sense of superiority, into a slobbering, toadying _, idiot_.

Anyone would think he had never seen a woman before.

He _had_ seen a woman before; he worked next to a woman every day, Deborah thought furiously. She wasn’t sure why she was so angry; maybe it was just that her colleague was stooping so low from his normally lofty heights. True, they were fictitious heights, but he wouldn’t be Martin without them.

There was nothing special about Hester; it couldn’t be her personality. Martin seemed so enamoured that he couldn’t have been hearing her personality as she subtly insulted him; which meant that it must be purely physical.

In which case, Deborah wondered, what was wrong with _her?_ Martin had no problem talking to _her_ …he didn’t splutter or toady or try and win her over with ridiculous lines and a falsely suave intonation. Wasn’t _she_ pretty enough to prompt a little stutter, or pleasant enough to achieve the slightest implication of attention.

It didn’t matter.

Not at all.

None of it would matter if Martin wasn’t currently sat beside her, with Hester Macauley perched on the arm of his pilot’s seat, letting her poke and prod at _their_ control panel. If it had been anyone else, Martin would have thrown the book at them, quoted the CAA, anything to enforce the correct order; hell, if Deborah had allowed an attractive man to fiddle with GERTI, Martin would throw a fit.

But when Martin wanted to get his leg over with a gorgeous film star, then the rules didn’t apply.

Deborah clenched her hands surreptitiously around the controls that hadn’t been commandeered; it took all her energy to maintain a stiff smile and nod in the correct intervals.

“What does it do?” Hester inquired, pointing a manicured finger at the artificial horizon, smudging the menial gloss; her interest sounded too excessive. Deborah supposed that she _was_ an actress; a good one if the filmography that Deborah had looked up in a moment alone was to be believed.

Martin had never looked so ecstatic; his cheeks were flaming red, although Deborah knew she had made him flush darker than that. A small victory perhaps, but the rude woman couldn’t have it. His arms moved erratically as he moved between demonstrating and preparing to fly.

“Well, it just tells you if you’re flying level, or … or … or … or not level; and if you’re not flying level, you can correct it on the basis of that, and fly more … more …” Martin explained, stumbling over his words.

“… levelly?” Deborah offered, barely louder than a mutter; she knew she was being petulant, but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like anyone was paying attention to what _she_ was doing anyway.

“Levelly!” Martin agreed, glancing thankfully at Deborah for a fraction of a second before turning his attentions back onto Hester, who had lost interest in the horizon and moved onto the rest of the control panel; he even pushed his hat down onto his head as if the feel of it through his hair gave him a sense of fragile security.

“Loverly.” Deborah sighed; she slumped in her seat and let her eyes drop to her nail buds, which she picked at violently, anything to avoid having to watch the sickening display.

She stopped listening when they began swapping terribly mundane jokes about altimeters, groaning, keeping an ear on them just in case a chance might appear for her to interject with something wittier.

“Why do you need two?” Hester asked, looking to Martin expectantly. His eyes shot quickly from here to there, avoiding hers in his nervousness; it was painful, actually painful for Deborah to watch her usually confident Captain miss the fact that Hester was barely paying attention to his answers, merely filling her time.

“Um, just in case one goes wrong.” Martin answered eventually, a wavering smile suggesting that he was proud of himself for thinking of the words, but worried about how they might come across.

“That’s the theory, anyway, isn’t it Martin?” Deborah cut in, in her most charming voice; it wouldn’t hurt to rescue Martin from himself, even if he was ignoring her, “In practice, it’s like Confucius says: Man with one altimeter always know height; man with two, never certain.”

Hester let out the only genuine laugh that Deborah had heard her release in the entire time she had been on board, placing a hand lightly over her chest as if to hold in the well contained hilarity.

“Oh-oh, I know loads like that. Um …” Martin said indignantly, scowling at Deborah and sitting forward in his seat as if to appear to fill more space, shoulders squaring as his hands pressed down on the arms; Deborah rolled her eyes and glared down at the control panel, away from him; _of course_ he had to try and one up her – what did he think she was trying to do? He was always so suspicious, even when she wasn’t doing anything; Deborah briefly considered actually going out to get him, just to prove a point, then decided against it.

Martin let out a nervous laugh as he tried to make his brain work, and though she pointedly avoided looking at him, she heard his sharp intake of breath as he adopted a terrible accent.

“Confucius, he say …” he joked, and then dropping into his normal edged accent, more drearily, “Oh, they’ve, um, they’ve all gone out of my head.”

Deborah pressed a hand against her eyes, shaking her head; bloody, bloody, Martin. How he managed to be so pathetically offensive without even trying was beyond her.

She listened half-heartedly to Martin try and flirt unsuccessfully, and Hester turn him down in her own way, with a clipped tone that held no promises whatsoever. She peered through her fingers at the control column, sighing heavily.

Martin must have realised that Hester was slipping away as she moved from the arm of his seat and into the space behind them, as he blurted out the first thing that came into his head; then again, Deborah thought, he could have been thinking of it for a while, that would seem just about right as well.

“Never eat yellow snow!” Martin blurted; the desperation was clear in his voice.

Deborah let her hand slip from her forehead to her lips, hiding the unwilling smirk that tugged at the corner of her lips. She wouldn’t laugh; another day, maybe she would have. Martin delivered the lines of fools with such an arrogant gracelessness that it was funny. Not today though, she wouldn’t give him that when he was fawning over such a horrible woman in _her_ flight-deck.

“What?” Deborah heard Hester reply cautiously from by the door.

“Confucius. He … well, tha-tha-that’s not one of the best ones.” Martin explained sheepishly; Deborah imagined he was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and pressing his hat down with the other.

“Okay.” Was Hester’s only response, and a moment later the flight-deck door scraped open and clicked closed, masking the clip-clopping of heels of the floor.

Deborah only looked up when she heard Martin sigh blissfully. She knew that her nose was scrunched as she took in Martin’s relaxed form, one arm over the back of his seat, still turned as if he had just finished watching the woman leave.

“What a lovely woman.” Martin remarked; he didn’t grace Deborah with his gaze, looking instead through the front window, but the comment was obviously expecting a response.

“Oh, did you _like_ her?” Deborah inquired sarcastically, aware that she sounded far too annoyed for someone who hadn’t been paying attention, “You seemed rather cool and distant, I don’t think she noticed, _I_ certainly didn’t.”

“Oh, no! Did I? Really?” Martin regained his tucked in posture and turned wide eyed to stare into Deborah’s eyes, as if relying upon her for reassurance.

“No.” Deborah replied shortly, folding her arms over her chest and sneering fleetingly, “Everyone within a five mile radius is aware that you fancy Ms Hester Macauley.”

Martin huffed, and Deborah glanced sideways at him just in time to see a twisted smirk intersect his red cheeks and a funny glint enter his eyes.

“Oh, I see… _jealous_ are you?” he inquired, with all the confidence of someone who thought that they had stumbled upon a treasure trove; no stuttering or awkwardness, none at all.

“What have I to be jealous of?” Deborah retorted, keeping herself facing forward and wrapped securely around herself while maintaining a degree of elegance; she knew she shouldn’t rise to the bait, but she couldn’t help it, “The fact that I don’t have a film star at my heels? I’m afraid you might be mistaken Martin, I don’t quite swing that way.”

“Quite?” Martin asked, looking momentarily confused and interested at the same time, peering at her; Deborah smirked, knowing that he would kill to hear what she had got up to at university, even as his expression snapped back into self-righteous place, “No – that’s irrelevant…I meant jealous that someone else is getting all the attention and you aren’t.”

Deborah scoffed, unable at first to formulate a reply as she kept herself stiff and glancing only infrequently at Martin, who was staring her down; he had hit too close to home. Then the underlying suggestion behind his words sunk in, and she opened her mouth in an almost gasp of indignant shock.

“You think I’m jealous because _you_ fancy _her_ and not _me_?” she demanded, staring at Martin with such heat that his head drooped and his eyes dropped to inspect his knuckles on the arms of his chair; good, he deserved to be guilty, “Forgetting the fact that I am…happily married, do you _really_ think that’s true?”

“No.” Martin replied sheepishly, shaking his head; he really did look as if he were regretting his outburst, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, “No, I _don’t-_ ”

“Then why say it?” Deborah pushed; she was going to get the upper hand if it killed her, it was no more than what he deserved, “Do you _want_ it to be true?”

“No, of course I don’t!” Martin snapped, finally looking up with his typical stubbornness firmly back in place; he rubbed a hand over his chin and shook his head, ignoring Deborah’s eyes that were still on him, “Look, can we just do the pre-flight checks?”

“Certainly, Captain.” Deborah replied in a clipped tone; she rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes briefly to refocus herself.

Martin remained mercifully quiet, although it wasn’t the sort of quiet that usually accompanied a cheerful flight.

oOoOoOo

Deborah leant back against the interior of the lift. Of course it was her responsibility to tidy up after Martin’s mess. Of course she had accepted such a charge with merely a salacious smirk that promised she would be reimbursed later.

Of course Martin had had the self-righteousness to beg for her help after being so needlessly vindictive; she didn’t even know what she had done to deserve his distemper. Apart from their initial disagreement, she had been on her best behaviour.

She had even had to stifle a laugh into a muted smile when Martin had made the faux pas at the reception desk; naughty, naughty, Captain Crieff _would_ pick the most sexual cartoon character in the book. And he hadn’t even been flirting then, that was purely and simply Martin being Martin. Surely that bought some of his trust back?

But no, Deborah had paid close attention as first he shafted her from her pleasant room, then lied to her face about all staying together in the grotty hotel; she had kept an eye on him as he tried to escape back to the Excelsior with Arthur, leaving her to suffer in filth on her own.

That was hurtful. She had tried not to acknowledge it, but it was.

She had observed from afar as Martin had schemed with Arthur (who she had no doubt was innocent), then as his face had fallen first at the hoard of middle aged knights, then at the furious phone call from Hester.

Throughout it all, Deborah still couldn’t work out why Martin seemed so set upon leaving her in the horrible hotel. There were simpler options that included keeping together and suffering as one, to putting up with each other’s company for the sake of a nicer room.

But no…Martin clearly despised her still as much as he had when they had first met. And Deborah couldn’t for the life of her recall what she might have done to provoke that.

Arthur had been no help. Sure, he had been uncertain about the two of them going to the horrible hotel when Martin got to stay at the Excelsior, and he had tried his best to cheer her up using anything that had worked in the past. It hadn’t worked, but Deborah hadn’t at that point been too put out by having to move; she had been content to chat with Arthur about this and that.

It was just Martin that had made it sour.

There was no time to waste however, as a steely ding reverberated around the lift interior, and a moment later the door swished open to reveal Hester Macauley.

Nothing but manners; Deborah could be pleasant when the moment called for it.

“Come in, Ms Macauley; do make yourself comfortable.” She greeted the woman; Hester smiled gratefully and nodded, peering down her nose as she did so.

For some reason, Hester had taken to Deborah in a way that hadn’t been reciprocated. It was as if she had spotted a woman of her own age range, and decided that they were allies. Deborah supposed that that point of view held its merits; she had yet to fall victim to the star’s scorching rage.

“Ms Macauley. On behalf of us all at MJN Air, allow me to say how sorry we are for all the trouble and inconvenience you’ve suffered.” Deborah reeled off the speech that she had prepared, keeping her hands linked at her front, just like she had been taught at school, and a dim but resistant smile on her face.

“Well, so you bloody well should be.” Hester huffed, shaking her head and adjusting stray strands of hair.

“Indeed we bloody well should be, and so we bloody well are.” Deborah replied smoothly, holding her tongue; just a few more minutes, and she could go.

“You know, that Captain of yours is a bit pathetic.” Hester remarked, carelessly, as if their shared gender meant that companionship was a given, “Honestly, I didn’t tell him to leave me alone, and a I endured his stuttering and gasping; the least he could do is make sure m stay is comfortable, and he couldn’t even do that right. I don’t know how you put up with him being so irritating all the time.”

Deborah froze, almost holding her breath as her eyes narrowed and she looked away from Hester’s uncaring face and at the greasy corner of the lift. Acutely aware of the flaw in her timing that answering would cause, she slipped a hand behind her back to push the button to hold the doors closed.

She tried to think of something dry and witty to say, but all that came to mind was brutal honesty.

“I think he’s funny.” Deborah muttered just loudly enough for Hester to hear, keeping her eyes down.

Beside her, Deborah heard Hester clear her throat, and make a noncommittal sound.

“Well.” Hester said curtly; she lifted a hand to her hair, as if to pretend that it had caught her interest.

“Well…let’s move on.” Deborah suggested; she had no desire to discuss that particular subject any further; she didn’t even know why she was defending the man, “Firstly, let me assure you that the medieval contingent have now been entirely vanquished; and furthermore, in recompense for your suffering, I have been authorised to secure for you perhaps the most luxurious accommodation in Italy not already bagsied by the Pope. Behold …”

With that, Deborah took her finger from the button behind her back, and the doors to the lift swished open, dragging a line of cold air in their wake.

“… your State Rooms.” Deborah concluded with a flourish.

Hester clearly hadn’t realised that the lift hadn’t been moving for a while.

“How did you time your speech so that it ended precisely on the ding?” she inquired, peering into the rooms with a wondrous expression on her face as she tread lightly into the space

“I rode up and down in the lift a few times, practising.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it was as much as she deserved; it was nearly true.

oOoOoOo

They were at the Garibaldi. Carolyn, before flying home herself, had ordered the refunding of the expensive room that Hester Macauley _would_ have stayed at in the Excelsior. She had then booked two rooms at the Garibaldi, and decreed that as Arthur was the only one that hadn’t tried to deceive her that day, _he_ would be getting the single, and Martin and Deborah would have to share the twin.

After the day she had had, Deborah couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted less. She still wasn’t entirely sure why she was so bothered, but the end result was – she was unhappy, and the last person she wanted to share a room with was the root cause of that.

She had considered calling Harry to vent to him; she had even sat on the edge of the grimy bath, the bathroom door pushed shut, and held her phone in her hand, turning it over and over thinking about calling her husband.

In the end, she had decided not to; she didn’t want to bother him with it. She didn’t want him to know…she didn’t want him to think that the wife he had married wasn’t as immovable as she pretended to be. She was under no illusions that he thought that, she saw the sympathetic nods when she complained to him, but it helped to pretend.

So now she lay in the bed by the window, covers pulled up to her neck, arms curled around the duvet, paying only slight attention to where Martin tapped away on his old laptop, sat atop the covers of his own bed.

“Martin?”

“Yes?” Martin replied, not looking up from what he was doing; he was dragging his lips through his teeth in thought, over and over again.

“Why is it that you were going to let me stay here on my own while the two of you enjoyed the luxury of the Excelsior?” Deborah asked; she was tired, too tired to manage her usual drawl or sardonic jesting. She brushed the hair from her face as Martin replied.

“You would have done the same to me.” Martin stated plainly. He had stopped typing, a sure sign that his attention was on her despite the stony stiffness of his face and the way his eyes bored into the screen of his computer.

A dull ache surged in Deborah’s chest, and she found herself caught part way between affronted and hurt; she still couldn’t decipher why he thought so badly of her. Sure, she prodded and poked and japed about him, sometimes choosing the company of Arthur over him…but she _was_ trying to push past her initial misgivings and get to know him.

She had thought that she was succeeding. Apparently not.

“No I wouldn’t.” was all that she could make herself say.

“Wouldn’t you?” Martin retorted harshly, keeping his voice down, the edge to it coming through loud and clear regardless; he was tense, and all Deborah could think about was how strange it was to be looking at him horizontally.

“No…I wouldn’t.” Deborah repeated quietly, eyes still tracing the lines of his distemper.

Slowly but surely, the tension in Martin’s limbs eased, and his face fell; it seemed that in the semi-darkness, Martin wasn’t quite so guarded, as his lips fell into a frown, and his eyes flittered about.

He turned his head to meet Deborah’s gaze, and she was struck by the openness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly, even quieter than her previous statement.

Deborah nodded, the side of her head brushing against the mattress. She didn’t attempt a smile, but didn’t break Martin’s gaze.

“Thank you.” She replied; without another word, Deborah rolled over so that she was facing the window, pulling the covers higher over her head so that she was cocooned in as reasonable a warmth as such a shoddy hotel could provide.


	5. Douz

**Douz**

Deborah winced as her foot collided with the underside of her bed, sending shards of pain shooting up her toes. The pain was bearable, but the shock of catching oneself when clattering about in the dark was never pleasant.

It was an early flight today, early enough on a Saturday that Harry was still snoring softly in the pale light from the hall, sprawled out on his side of the bed; though he had been considerate enough to leave a sizeable line of space between his side and hers, so that was something.

They didn’t fall asleep wrapped around each other as they had in their first few years, but Deborah found that it didn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It meant that either of them could leave the bed early, or enter it late, without rousing the other.

That, and the fact that after not seeing each other for long periods of time, there was something uncomfortable about clinging to the other; Deborah supposed that she would feel differently if they had much time to connect before the night fell, but with dinner and activities and late arrivals, there was barely time.

Deborah paused in the process of doing up the top buttons of her pale shirt to run he eyes over Harry’s sleeping form; she briefly entertained the idea of clambering over to draw her arms around him from behind and wrapping him in an embrace, but decided against it at the last minute. He was already unhappy that he wouldn’t be spending breakfast with her (the only piece of routine when she was at home and not abroad), and he would be much more amiable given a few more hours sleep.

Then again, it may have been an early flight, but she _would_ be there in the evening, and needed to talk to him in preparation for that.

Biting her lip, Deborah tiptoed over to the bed, dropping lightly down onto her knees. She reached over, so that she was leaning gently over Harry, who grumbled a bit at the dipping of the mattress, and placed a hand over his shoulder, shaking and squeezing at the same time.

A fizzle of affection simmered in the pit of her stomach as the tall, blonde man groaned, eyes first opening and then clamping shut, arm curving drearily about until it hit her stomach softly, briefly feeling the buttons of her shirt before dropping to rest on the duvet as Harry rolled onto his back, blinking blearily up at his wife.

“Mmmm…Debbie?” Harry’s voice was rough with sleep; Deborah smile thinly at the bewilderment in his eyes, “You off out then?”

His head darted to the side in search of the clock, but Deborah tapped his arm to draw his attention back to her.

“In a minute, I just wanted to check a few things.” She explained quietly, keeping her voice to a raised whisper for his sake, “So that I’m not rushing around when I get home.”

Harry nodded, lifting the hand that wasn’t playing with the blankets beside Deborah’s knee to paw at his tussled hair.

“That’s this evening yes?” he verified; Deborah saw the thoughtful pursing of his lips and the way his eyes shifted from her face to the ceiling, and though there was a sensation similar to stones being thrown in her chest, she nodded, “I’m not going to be home until quite late.”

Deborah continued to nod, unable to quite stop herself without the risk of frowning petulantly. She didn’t know why she bothered, it wasn’t as if Harry was looking at her in the dark; or much at all. He hadn’t even noticed that she had let her hair grow out just a little longer, allowing it to curl naturally without straightening it.

Martin had noticed; he had commented on it about half-way through their last flight. He had even reached across to flutter his finger through an almost non-existent wave, before retracting his hand as if burned, with similarly burning cheeks.

“And what will you be doing to keep you out so late?” Deborah inquired politely, feeling herself tense against her will; unlike her husband, she kept her eyes on his face, registering every twitch.

There was no reason to be so cautious, she knew that. But…she had been deceived and left alone once before, and her lifestyle hadn’t changed too much since then…though she hadn’t been sober then.

There was nothing to worry about. She and Harry may not have been inseparable just then, but he loved her. He thought she was fantastic. They were fine because no matter what was going on in her head, _he_ loved _her._

“I’ve got a Tai-Chi lesson tonight.” Harry answered, scrubbing at his eyes with his now fisted hand.

“Surely Tai-Chi isn’t so strenuous that it would keep you from home hours into the night?” Deborah noted; she pulled her legs ever so slightly closer to her body, tucking them underneath each other.

Fortunately, Harry must have caught the movement and not seen it for what it was, as the hand that was fiddling with the duvet drifted up to rest on her exposed knee, clenching soothingly.

“It’s not that; after the lesson I’m going to the pub with a few of the other men from the class.” He explained reasonably, smiling contentedly up at her, “I might be a while because…well, it’s not like I can go out for a drink any other time, is it?”

Deborah jerked her leg away from his grasp, tucking it under herself without thinking about it. He didn’t mean it like that, she told herself, it was _her_ problem besides, it wasn’t fair that he should suffer or miss out for it.

“No, of course not.” Deborah drawled, smiling as far as she could without grimacing, “You have fun tonight…I suppose this means that you _won’t_ want any food left out?”

“No, no, don’t worry about that, Love.” Harry murmured, clearly drifting back into the clutches of sleep if the way his fingers curled the blankets around his torso were anything to go by, “I’ll get something while I’m out.” He let out a yawn, and Deborah tried not to exhale derisively, “You just enjoy your night in, watch some of that tele you like – I’ll try not to wake you when I get back.”

“Sure.” Deborah retorted; without another word she slipped from the bed and to her feet, snatching her uniform jacket from the chair in the corner of the room.

Harry simply rolled over and drifted back into his dreams, or whatever he thought about when he wasn’t awake; Deborah didn’t want to venture into those waters. She stood for an immeasurable moment, watching his chest rise and fall.

He didn’t look any different from when they had first met. The scene was even the same; hi still in bed, her making a hasty departure in order to get to work before the plane left without her.

It shouldn’t be so difficult to make it feel the same. She didn’t think on it for too long though; she was sure to find something to spark the connection again, even just a conversation with some depth…she wasn’t even entirely sure what was going on in his life…he didn’t talk about his job often, and was closed off about his extra classes.

That was fixable…

oOoOoOo

Deborah wasn’t sure how she would classify the day so far.

She was in a fairly decent mood, if not a little annoyed at Martin, but that was hardly abnormal; as successful as they were at getting along, and getting to know each other, Martin was, and always would be, a monumental prat that felt the need to take control and highlight his ‘superiority’, while also criticising Deborah’s shortcomings.

It wasn’t something he was doing on purpose, she didn’t think at least, it was merely a facet of all that made up Martin, and if she wanted to get to know him, she would have to accept that Prat came as part of the package.

There was no point stewing over the fact that he had taken _her_ landing; no, she could just sit back and let _him_ be in control when things inevitably went wrong. That was revenge enough, no need for unpleasantness on top of that.

Martin had stormed from GERTI to confront the airfield manager over the bill. Deborah was under no illusion that he would be successful, but it might be interesting to see the results.

She slouched back further in her seat, kicking her feet up to rest on the edge of the control panel and folding her arms behind her head, exhaling slowly for the sake of something to do.

“Take your feet off of my control panel before I cut them off.” Carolyn scolded her in a calm and contained tone of voice, never taking her eyes from the camera that Arthur was holding inches from her nose, showing her the pictures that he had taken over the course of the day.

With an exaggerated sigh Deborah let her feet fall to the hard grating and turned to watch Carolyn with a pout on her lips. It seemed that there was nothing else she wanted to criticise, as the only thing she said was that Arthur’s picture of the wing was hardly usable.

In Martin’s absence, the older woman had taken his seat, and Arthur was currently leaning between the two pilot’s seats, one arm over the back of Deborah’s, the other held aloft for his mother’s viewing pleasure. Neither of them were paying her much interest.

“Carolyn…” Deborah drawled lazily, elongating the vowels until Carolyn deigned to raise her eyes and push the camera away from her face, meeting her pilot’s gaze with an expectant stare, “If Martin messes this up…can I be Captain?”

Carolyn scoffed, her eyebrows knitting together in delighted derision, a smirk invading her cheeks.

“Deborah, this is the third time you’ve asked that same question, and the answer is still _no_.” she retorted.

“I don’t think Skip would be too pleased if you got to be Captain instead of him.” Arthur chipped in, conceding to slip his camera into his pocket, and looking down at Deborah thoughtfully, “and what if he quit because he didn’t want to be First Officer? Then we’d be a pilot down.”

Deborah swivelled in her seat so that she was kneeling over the back, making it easier to talk to both Arthur and Carolyn at the same time. She plucked her hat from where she had slung it on the control panel and twirled it on the tip of her finger.

“That’s easily solved.” Deborah said decisively; without warning, she reached up and placed her hat atop Arthur’s head, “ _You_ can be my First Officer.”

Arthur’s face lit up as his hands shot towards his head as if to check that the hat was really there, and not a figment of his imagination. Deborah couldn’t help but grin at Carolyn’s exaggerated sigh as she rolled her eyes.

“Aw, brilliant!” Arthur exclaimed, chest puffing out proudly, “You know, Deborah, I’m starting to like this plan just a little bit more.”

“Oh dear lord…” Carolyn shook her head in despair and swept a wrinkling hand over her eyes; Deborah slipped back onto her backside and continued to smile at her employer, “If you two mutiny, I will not be pleased.”

“I don’t know Mum, Deborah does make a persuasive argument.” Arthur prodded, leaning more heavily against the back of the First Officer’s seat.

“No, she does not.” Carolyn stated firmly, eyes widened to the point where Carolyn-watchers knew not to challenge her, especially as she pointed aggressively at Deborah, as if to grind in the knowledge that the issue was dropped.

Deborah rolled her eyes, smirking cheerfully and lifting her hand to drape across the back of her seat, fiddling with the button on the cuff of Arthur’s sleeve.

“You know, Carolyn, I don’t understand why you keep me if you’re not going to give me a promotion.” she remarked, aiming for nonchalance; the fact that her eyes remained firmly fixed on Carolyn may have given away her interest.

“Because I hate having to interview enthusiastic tweens and decrepit invalids who have decided that flying a plane might be nice because they no longer have other job options.” Carolyn shuddered at the thought, scowling at the very memory, “I’m hardly about to sack the only pilot with no job options that happens to be of a sensible age and actually good at flying.”

Deborah’s smirk threatened to spill into genuine pleasure, as beneath her ribs there surged a wave of warm tingles that she had almost forgotten, as it had been so long since any sensation of the sort had overcome her.

To compensate, she collected herself, sliding upwards so that she was straight in her seat, and folding one leg delicately over the other.

“Hmm…you say that, Carolyn…” Deborah drawled, waiting for Carolyn’s attention before she continued, “But I think it’s actually because I’m your _favourite_.”

“Favourite pilot?” Carolyn retorted, snorting a little, though Deborah thought not to mention it.

“ _No_ , favourite _person_.” Deborah elucidated, “You won’t admit it, but secretly I’m your closest friend.”

At this Carolyn huffed and rose to her feet, anchoring herself on the arms of the seat as she hoisted herself up.

“You can believe what you wish.” She announced, gesturing with both hands into the air as if welcoming the winds to her command, “Now, I’ve got to go and fetch our passengers – what joy.”

As she passed through the gap between the seats, Carolyn swatted Deborah over the back of the head. Deborah made only a half-hearted attempt to avoid it, tilting her head upwards to meet Arthur’s gaze as he turned back from the flight-deck door, smiling up at him.

Perhaps the day wasn’t so bad.

She wondered when Martin was getting back; she felt in the mood for a good old debate with him. There _was_ something thoroughly enthralling about seeing how many times she could make him splutter and blush.

oOoOoOo

It had got worse. Martin had somehow, despite all the stars aligning in such a way that nothing could possibly be worse, Martin had managed it.

It was so extraordinary that Deborah didn’t even have the energy to be mad about it. She was simply possessed by a bemused wonderment at his apparent subversion of superhuman abilities.

That…and an almost sadistic desire to see him try to undo his mistakes. Martin wanted to be in control, Martin could be in control.

It was like watching a train-wreck, but a fantastic one.

Deborah observed in silence, hands pressed together on her lap, as Martin and Carolyn tried to decide how to get to Kebili without fuel or permission to take off.

A crash sounded from outside the flight-deck, and Deborah turned in her seat just in time to see Arthur stumble in, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair out of place, and the word ‘ **BEER’** scrawled in large block letters across the insides of both his wrists.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell them, okay…” Arthur insisted, back to the crew and arms raised as he reversed into the flight-deck as quickly as he could.

Deborah had enough time to muse that she had never seen Arthur look so put-out or irritated as he did in that moment, before another bottle flew through the air and bounced off of his upper arm.

“Ow!” Arthur exclaimed; he pulled the door shut before any more missiles could pass through, and turned to the three of them with a harried expression on his face, hands raised in an illustration of despair, “Um, the passengers have a few requests.”

“What?” Carolyn replied, her nose crinkling as she took in the appearance of her son.

“Um, well, more beer. They were very clear about that.” Arthur explained tensely, as if unsure whether he was in the wrong or they were, “Look. To make sure I remembered they wrote it on … me.”

Deborah spared him a sympathetic glance, which he smiled back at, naturally.

“Oh yes, so they did.” Martin noted, also leaning around his chair to peer at the marks on Arthur’s arms; he seemed far less concerned about that, Deborah observed, than passingly interested as he peered down his nose, chewing on the corner of his lip.

“Yeah. So: beer, definitely; um, water, some of them are keen on; uh, and … an umpire.” Arthur reeled off the various requests that had been set to him.

“An umpire?” Martin repeated, eyes narrowing in confusion.

Deborah straightened to attention immediately, fingers curling over the edges of the controls that she had been clutching. Cricketers that want an umpire…that can only mean that they’re playing cricket.

It had been ages since she’d played. It took less than a moment for her to decide to abandon her crew; so long as she was very deliberately _not_ being helpful, she might as well go and have some fun.

While Martin was still interrogating Carolyn and Arthur, holding their attention in a way that only prissy and demanding can, Deborah slipped quietly from her seat and tread lightly to the back of the flight-deck, snatching her flight bag from its spot, and opened the door as silently as possible before disappearing through it.

She couldn’t do physical activity in her uniform, that much was certain; a running race with Arthur had proved as much.

Luckily, she always wore a white strapped top under her shirt, a precaution against passengers that thought spilling water over her was the key to a happier flight, so she simply unbuttoned her shirt and tucked it into the bag. Followed by her skirt and tights, which were swiftly replaced by a pair of shorts that could be worn on the beach, or more likely, when lounging in bed during the day.

The change took less than a minute; Deborah had never really appreciated the Galley before, but it really was spacious enough to move in, while providing a nice, hidden area for times when covert operations needed to be undertaken.

When she strode into the cabin, Deborah had expected for the men to ogle, and she was not disappointed. What did surprise her was the fact that they were all in swimming trunks; smart men, she thought, but why they needed swimming trunks on a rugby tour was beyond her.

Though the eyes of her chest and legs were uncomfortable, they were nothing that she wasn’t used to, and she wasn’t going to let that get in the way of a bit of fun; honestly, she normally did really well around ‘blokey’ blokes.

“Alright, eyes up lads, show the lady some respect.” One of the men spoke above the light murmur; a tall, stocky one, with a crooked nose and bruised chin.

Deborah nodded her thanks as the rest of the team looked away sheepishly, murmuring apologies, one even clapping her on the back in a companionable way. Plastering on a smirk, Deborah held out her hand to the man holding the cricket bat, spotting the wicket half way down the aisle as she did.

“Let’s have a go then,” she suggested, wiggling her fingers when the bat with withheld in the air, “I bet I’ve got a better swing than at least three of you.”

“Nah, I doubt it.” Another man retorted in a thick Scottish accent, causing his fellows to chuckle around him

“Well, let me have a go, and we’ll see.” Deborah drawled persistently, hand still aloft, waiting for the bat.

The man holding it was clearly game, as with a shake of his head and a reluctant smile he placed it in her hand and stepped aside for her to take his place, bowing playfully as she positioned herself.

It turned out that Deborah had a fantastic swing, that made at least two thirds of the men cheer as she clapped her hands together and raised them in the air in a show of victory.

The celebration didn’t last long though, as the intercom buzzed, and Carolyn’s voice caused all to fall silent.

 _“Deborah, I wish to have a little word – under the wing._ Now. _”_

oOoOoOo

Carolyn’s revelation had tilted Deborah’s world ever so slightly on its axis. She had always mocked and slightly resented Carolyn, despite her affection for the woman…yet, now she sort of understood her….wanted to be a good worker for her so that MJN wasn’t a failure.

 It was horrible.

And to top it all off, she really, really wanted to set fire to the manager’s office. She hadn’t been thinking about it before, but when Carolyn mentioned it, it seemed like the best thing in the world.

Then again, maybe the heat of the desert beating down on her had frazzled her brain cells.

That seemed very likely as it appeared that she and Martin had not only come up with a plan together, but were working together to execute it as well. They were getting along extraordinarily well actually; even the ribbing was contained with no suggestion that they were actually trying to hurt each other.

Deborah directed the rugby players to the fire-truck, keeping an eye out for any airfield officials that might wander by. Martin was at her side, watching the proceedings.

What gave her pause, was the fact that Martin had shirked off his jacket, and was holding it out to her, a focused expression on his sunburnt face that would have looked apt on an electrician humming over a daily job, not on a pilot trying to roll up his sleeves in the middle of the desert while one hand was occupied.

“Deborah, could you hold onto that for me?” Martin asked, sparing her only a glance.

Deborah was too distracted by bewilderment to consider the fact that she took his jacket from him as requested and folded it over her elbow.

“Martin, what are you doing?” she inquired, no drawl, just plain confusion that she made no effort to hide.

Martin quirked an eyebrow at her, as if to say that _she_ was the one behaving unusually, as he bared his lower arms and stepped away as if to follow the team.

“I’m going to help lift the fire-truck.” He explained, as if it were obvious, “you did say all hands on deck.”

“But _your_ hands Captain?” Deborah remarked, following him a few steps, fingers closing over his jacket where she held it; she didn’t want to say that she was concerned, but she began to suspect that she might be concerned at Martin’s sudden shift into ‘normal bloke’, “You’re not exactly a sportsman…are you not afraid you might break your back?”

Martin let out a noise half way between a scoff and a chuckle, a throaty noise that only he could manage.

“ _No_ ,” he answered, and Deborah was surprised (and impressed) to see that he was smirking smugly, the bastard, “I have quite good upper body strength actually.”

“How come?” Deborah pushed, but Martin merely shook his head and tapped the side of his nose, his smile growing as he began to tread backwards towards the other men.

“None of your business.” Martin retorted; then he winked, _bloody winked_ , the smug sod, and turned to stride away from her, rounding the truck just as the rugby players had.

Deborah shook her head to dispel any stray thoughts; there was no point puzzling over the enigma that was Martin Crieff, not in that moment anyway.

She raised her voice and her hands, making sure to hold onto Martin’s jacket.

“Places, places! Okay, remember, bend from the knees, not from the back. And three, two, one, lift!” she instructed, and there were grunts and cries as the vehicle creaked, but slowly and surely, the truck lifted from the ground, “Yes, it’s coming! It’s coming! Yes! And … carry … carry …bit more, nearly there, nearly there! And drop!”

“Hey! Hey!” the sound of the airfield staff could be heard even as the truck touched the ground again and the men released equally pained groans, rubbing and rolling their muscles, as Deborah rushed up among them and tried to hurry them along.

“Back on the plane! Back on the plane! Go, go, go, go!” she called, going so far as to push some of them when they didn’t move fast enough.

Martin was the last to climb the steel steps, allowing her to pass before him, waving a hand at her as he gasped for breath and jogged up after her, retrieving his jacket from her arm and sending her a relieved smile as he did.

oOoOoOo

They actually managed to pull it off. This was the type of adventure that Deborah could tell to Verity, and have her daughter grin with unabashed admiration.

As they drove GERTI down the highway, to the tune of many men singing remarkably well in the cabin, Deborah couldn’t help but feel they’d done quite well. _They_ had done quite well.

She glanced sideways at Martin, who for the first time looked relaxed on the flight-deck, his shoulders without tension, his hands loose on the controls, and a contented, cheerful smile on his flushed cheeks.

“Two miles to go, Martin.” Deborah informed him; it was necessary information, but it also acted as a way to start a conversation, to try and keep the mood up while it was nice.

“Thank you, Deborah.” Martin replied confidently, shooting her a dashing grin before checking the dials again.

They were having fun, of that Deborah was sure. They were actually acting like friends, rather than people trying to be friends. She had come to realise over the course of the day, that said friendship did not exclude a little harmless prodding; in fact it thrived on it.

She couldn’t resist; teasing was just one step away from harmless flirting among friends. It felt natural; if Martin didn’t react well, then she would let it lie, but if it made being friends with Martin easier, she would flirt until the world ended.

“D’you want me to drive for a bit, darling?” Deborah drawled, making sure to gaze somewhat playfully at Martin.

Martin turned to meet her gaze, and to her delight, he smirked wickedly; his cheeks also flushed scarlet, but it was hard to see under the burnt skin of his face.

“No thanks, dear. You know I get car-sick in the passenger seat.” He replied, quirking his eyebrow and holding eye contact for just long enough for it to be successful.

Deborah’s smirk spilled into a genuine smile that she tried to hide, though this only led to the release of a giggle that she had been holding in. If Martin had noticed, he didn’t say anything; the only sign that he had was the sideways glance he stole before clearing his throat.

“Good…uh, today was good, good, uh, good teamwork,” Martin stuttered, not as if he were nervous, but as if he wasn’t sure what to say, “We…we make a good team, we did, good, good teamwork.”

Deborah watched him grasp for words, licking her lips as she waited for him to finish.

“Yes…we weren’t bad were we?” she replied; the moment had gone, so she rolled her shoulders back and settled down in her seat.

 “No…not bad.” Martin agreed; then he inhaled sharply, and asked, “Are they ready for us in Kebili?”

“They are.” Deborah informed him dutifully, flicking a control that was on the verge of crying wolf.

It would be a shame to break up such a peaceful mood, she mused; perhaps, if Harry wasn’t expecting to be home until after she was asleep, she could stay behind after her shift was over.

Martin always did, and she supposed that sitting and filling out a few bits of paperwork with him would be far less dull than slouching around her house on her own. It would also mean that she could spend more time with Martin before the pleasant atmosphere wore away.

That could be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated as it can help me work out what needs tinkering and what's going well


	6. Edinburgh

**Edinburgh**

It was fair to say that Martin did not like Mr Birling. In all honesty, Deborah didn’t particularly like Mr Birling, but over the years she had developed a sort of resistance to his brashness, much like one would to a bigoted, highly opinionated grandfather who was likely to bequeath unto one very large amounts of money should the wind blow in the right direction.

And it was nice to see a familiar face once a year, to have some sort of routine. At the very least, Birling day ensured that Deborah was out of the house during the Six Nation’s Final. Harry would always sit down to watch it, taking up the sofa and cheering at the top of his voice.

It was distracting at best, and meant that boredom was at the top of the menu for the day; there was no point even trying to engage Harry when the rugby was on. He seemed to think that she wouldn’t be interested and rather ignored her.

So Deborah had been looking forward to introducing Martin to the traditions of Birling Day. She hadn’t expected him to stoop and toady to him; _no_ , the Supreme Commander would never deign to subordinate himself in such a way.

Martin would inevitably make a fuss, adopting his prissy shrillness and talk down his nose, but it would be fun to watch. She didn’t tell him about the tips at first, willing to reveal all once he had made just a little bit of a fool of himself.

Then she would tell him, and he would be able to patch things up before Mr Birling realised that Captain Crieff wasn’t showing him the respect that he demanded.

Except…Martin hadn’t just been prissy. He was being downright snappish, replying waspishly to each jesting remark that Deborah made in an attempt to cheer him up.

At which point she decided that if he was going to be rude, he couldn’t find out about the tips at all.

Over the past few months she had gone above and beyond the call of duty to be nice, to try and get along with him, to try and set up some sort of friendly working relationship, and every time Martin would play along for a while, give her a slither of hope, and then slash the very slither with a sudden U-turn.

Why should she do anything nice for _him_ , when all he ever did was take each and every opportunity to demean and insult her, making fun of the slightest deviation from her perfected façade and clamping down on any show of free-will or innovation on the flight-deck.

No, if Martin wasn’t going to play nice, she and Arthur could reap the benefits without him.

As they wandered across the airfield towards GERTI, Martin strode ahead, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders held stiffly; Deborah was sure that if she could see his face, he would be pouting petulantly.

Meanwhile, Deborah maintained a steady pace beside Arthur, who was making animated hand movements as he divulged all his troubles, clearly taking advantage of the opportunity provided by her thoughtful silence as she watched Martin’s retreating back.

“Arthur, you don’t have to learn a list of sporting trivia just to impress Mr Birling,” Deborah sighed, taking her eyes from Martin to meet Arthur’s single-minded gaze, “He’s only here once a year, and all he _actually_  cares about is whether you can serve him his drinks; there’s no point.”

“Yeah…but maybe if I know more about rugby, he’ll like me more, and he won’t make fun of me so much.” Arthur reasoned, shrugging as if he had no other option in the world.

Deborah rolled her eyes and drew her arms loosely around her chest against the slight breeze.

“Not everyone likes everyone else Arthur, and it’s not important that Mr Birling likes _you_.” She told him.

“But _you_ don’t like a lot of people, but you like _me_.” Arthur replied, smiling encouragingly, turning as he walked so that he could face her as he talked.

Ahead of them, the door to the cabin cracked open and Martin disappeared inside its shell without a backwards look. As they followed him up the steps, Deborah tipped her head back and groaned.

“I suppose so…” Deborah drawled; she took another look at Arthur’s face and found that she couldn’t deny him, “Oh, _go on_ , run your newly learnt facts by me.”

“Brilliant! Well, I’ve never been good at remembering the teams and things,” Arthur clapped his hands together, and Deborah smirked faintly at his enthusiasm as she entered the cabin, to see Martin slumped tensely in the aisle seat of Row A, “but now I’ve got a new way of remembering, because Ireland wear green, ’cause shamrocks are green; Scotland wear blue, ’cause it’s cold in Scotland; England wear red ’cause the flag’s red, white and blue.”

“England wear white.” Deborah corrected him, turning away to approach Martin, standing before him. He didn’t look up, when her shadow fell over him, and Arthur kept talking in the background, seemingly unaware of her preoccupation.

“Oh yeah: England wear white ’cause the flag’s red, white and blue; France …” Arthur reeled off.

“Yes, jolly good.” Deborah waved a dismissive hand in Arthur’s direction, shutting him up efficiently, before putting on the sweetest tone she could manage, “Er, Martin, Mr. B’s all settled and I’ve got the weather for you.”

As annoyed as she was with Martin, his current mood was the wrong type of irritable; there was ruffled and spluttering before bowing to the inevitable defeat, and then there was obnoxious and caustic. The latter was thoroughly uncomfortable to endure.

At the sound of her voice directed at him, Martin’s head snapped up, and his eyes bored into hers as he sneered unpleasantly, one hand shooting upwards to scratch defensively at the side of his head.

“Never mind the weather. What was all that?!” he demanded waspishly, his eyes flickering up and down her form once, as if summing her up and revaluating the summation.

“All what?” Deborah retorted, raising her hands in a lame surrender; she had thought that he was upset about what Mr Birling had ‘implied’ about him, but apparently not.

“That astonishing display of synchronised sycophancy.” Martin replied in a clipped tone; he folded both his arms and his legs fitfully, and even pressed his hat down on his head like a child would hug their comfort blanket.

“Oh, very good. Have you been working on that for a while?” Deborah drawled, putting on her best smile, which was more of a smirk; she wasn’t going to let Martin ruin Birling day for her, and if that meant forcing the frivolity she was willing to endure, “It really was impressive.”

Martin sighed in exasperation and shook his head, glaring sternly into her eyes, as if she had somehow broken his trust; she couldn’t help but feel indignant at the implication.

“You said he was a nice old boy.” Martin implored, cheeks flushing lightly with discontent, “He’s a horrible old boy.”

“What, Mr. B? No!” Arthur interjected; he crossed the cabin to stand beside Deborah, but she held him back with a raised arm, as Martin rolled his eyes.

“It’s just his way, Martin – a little harmless joshing.” Deborah explained, shrugging nonchalantly; she stepped over to drop lightly into the seat beside Martin, crossing one leg over the other and turning to face him.

Martin shifted in tandem, and held her gaze, effectively cutting Arthur from the conversation, although the steward continued to hover on the periphery, hands in pockets.

“He called you a failed criminal, and Arthur a repulsive half-wit.” Martin retorted in a measured tone, as if he were presenting a perfectly reasonable argument, trying to win her over.

Deborah didn’t respond immediately; it occurred to her, along with a tepid tingle in her chest, that perhaps Martin was simply trying to resurrect his colleagues to the degree of respect that they deserved, affronted on their behalves.

He hadn’t even flinched over the criminal comment; he had only shot a covert glance at her expression the first time that Mr Birling had mentioned it.

Deborah could only feel gratitude for that, and that fact shifted her perception of the Captain ever so slightly. She had been very careful about revealing too much of that aspect of her life, afraid that it might set Martin against her for good. However, he didn’t seem to be affected at all.

Martin hadn’t scorned her or treated her any differently, save for the atrocious mood that he was in…perhaps she was being a bit hard on him.

“And you …” Arthur began, trying to be helpful as always.

“I know what he called me. Now how is that ‘harmless joshing’?” Martin interrupted; he slouched further in his seat, in an act of defiant resignation.

“Well, I think for someone from his background, it’s …” Deborah clarified; _she_ understood how one’s upbringing could skew one’s behaviour. It didn’t make it right, but it meant that she could experience the onslaught while realising that he didn’t really _mean_ to be mean.

“Oh, I see.” Martin sighed disdainfully, “I know what this is. It doesn’t matter how nasty he is, so long as he went to a jolly good public school, like you two. Tell me Deborah, do they teach you how to be _entitled_ in these posh girl’s schools?”

And there it was, Martin’s fall back onto the person attack. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t get the magical upbringing he desired; if anything, he was more of a classist than she ever had been. Any affection she had been regaining vaporised.

“Oh, now, that’s not fair at all! You have no frame of reference from which to form that accusation.” Deborah insisted, making sure to mask her insulted almost-whine; she took a breath and reasserted her suavity, laying her hands down and open in the air, “Besides, Arthur went to a ghastly public school.”

“It’s true, I did. I mean, once, I was top in my year.” Arthur admitted, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck and leaning against the opposite row of chairs, “Me!”

Martin inhaled deeply, and then blew out through his nose, pinching his eyes as if steadying himself to resignation. At that point, Deborah wasn’t even sure how she was feeling about him.

Unhappy…but she wasn’t yet at the point where she no longer liked him…though even that was tenuous.

“Well, for the duration of the trip, can we all please try to have a little professional dignity and not go all gooey just because a man in an embroidered waistcoat calls us ‘dear boys’?” Martin instructed; Deborah thought he sounded as if he were making one last attempt at imposing his authority over them, despite suspecting that it wouldn’t work.

He couldn’t be allowed to think that he had won.

“He didn’t call you a ‘dear boy’; he called you a ‘little man’.” Deborah remarked, making absolutely sure that Martin’s attention was on her as she ran her eyes from his toes to the tip of his hat, as if to emphasise Mr Birling’s prior judgement.

Martin’s eyes narrowed, and he returned a sort of sardonic half-smirk, huffing as he maintained eye contact, peering across at her from beneath the hat which had slipped forward until the flap was covering his eyebrows in a debonair manner.

For a brief moment Deborah mused that it looked rather dashing on him, with his ginger hair poking out from beneath it and a completely confident epitome of petulance painting his expression. Then she caught herself, and looked away.

“Martin, you don’t understand, though …” Arthur stated, catching Martin’s attention successfully this time.

“He understands perfectly, Arthur.” Deborah cut him off, raising an eyebrow and thinning her lips in warning. She cursed inwardly as it didn’t work, and Martin turned his back to her fully, addressing Arthur instead.

“Hang on. Hang on. I know that tone of voice.” Martin interrogated; Deborah felt a surge of insult as Martin bypassed her completely, as if she weren’t worth asking herself, “What’s she trying to stop you from telling me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying …” Deborah gritted through her teeth, but Martin merely waved a hand behind him.

“ _Arthur_?”

“Well, I was just gonna say: what about the _tips_?” Arthur replied, grinning until the point in which he spotted Deborah’s stormy stare over Martin’s shoulder; his eyes fell and he looked sheepishly about the cabin floor.

“Ohhhh, I _see…_ ” Martin said sarcastically, returning to his former position to glare disdainfully at Deborah.

She noted how he left one arm hanging over the top of the seat; probably another subconscious attempt to highlight how _he_ was the Captain, the one in charge, asserting his dominance…they were all the bloody same.

Deborah didn’t care, she sat a little straighter and kept her expression as plain as his; he may be the Captain but she could damn well talk him under the table. She had changed her mind; Martin didn’t deserve to get the big tip.

“Now, look …” she began to explain, though she made no effort to stop him from talking over her.

“Now it begins to make sense. Big tipper, is he?” Martin exclaimed, putting on a tone of awed suspense, his eyes widening sardonically as his arms motioned with his words, “How nice! So he can treat you how he likes, so long as he pays you off at the end of it. How very _dignified_.”

“As if it’s any of _your_ business how _dignified_ I am.” Deborah couldn’t stop herself from sneering, taking her eyes from his until she restarted her deception, “Regardless, it’s not like that …”

“How much does he give you, then? Go on.” Martin sat back and made circling motions with his hand; he sounded as if he had it all figured out, Deborah inwardly scoffed, reminding herself not to stare too furiously at his face or the blush on his cheeks.

“It’s not … it’s not a question of how mu…” she couldn’t manage a full-on stutter, that would have been absurd, but she was certain that he didn’t pay enough attention to her to be able to spot the inconsistencies in her personality in that moment, even as she played with a stray curl of hair to add to the illusion.

“Come on!” Martin repeated; the damn bugger actually thought that he was succeeding in pulling rank.

Deborah traced her eyes up the lock of hair twirling between her fingers, before sighing dramatically and blinking up at Martin with a small, forced grimace on her lips.

“Well, if you must know, last year he gave us five hundred pounds each, Captain.” She admitted; she took pleasure in the way Martin’s blue eyes widened in surprise, and his eyebrows flitted up to meet his hairline.

“… Oh. Very nice.” Martin said guardedly, placing his hands together over his knee and nodding slowly, as if digesting the information.

“Yeah, but that was unusual …” Arthur chipped in, stepping forwards to re-join the discussion, as he was wont to do when he felt that he possessed information that no one else was privy too; there came a point when helpfulness became unhelpful.

“True. That was because England won.” Deborah continued his train of thought; she was sure that he would accept her next words as they were technically true, but sent him a pointed glare anyway, just in case, “We can’t expect that to happen this year.”

“Oh. Aren’t England good any more?” Arthur inquired; he frowned a bit at the stare, forehead crinkling in confusion as Deborah shook her head, communicating silently her supposed intent.

“Not good enough to win a match between Wales and France, certainly.” She concluded; Deborah hoped that that would be the end of things. Her mood had soured tremendously since leaving Mr Birling, and it hadn’t even been bright then.

Deborah expected someone to say something to fill the awkward pause that stretched out within the porta-cabin, but minutes passed and she still found herself inspecting her nail buds, leaning unconsciously towards the window so that she was not as close to Martin as the seats forced them to be.

When she glanced up, it was to see Martin also watching his intertwined fingers as if they held many secrets, and Arthur looking unusually pensive as his eyes moved between the two pilots. He met her gaze and suddenly he was awash with the inability to stand still.

“I should probably…go and sort out the Galley.” Arthur announced, clapping his hands together and swaying slightly, before striding down the cabin and disappearing behind the chain curtain.

Deborah watched his back as he left, wishing for once in her life that Arthur would come back and be in the room; she wasn’t entirely sure why, she just didn’t want to be left alone with a sulking Martin.

“So, is there a _reason_ that you weren’t going to tell me about the tips?” Martin inquired in a clipped, withheld tone; Deborah sat back in her seat and looked calmly back to his face, taking in the stubborn, indignant contortion with a strange feeling of guilt that he had no right to instil in her, “Or have I done something to upset you?”

Deborah opened her mouth in a cut off scoff, staring at him in disbelief. After all the sniping that he put her through, with little to no explanation, he honestly couldn’t see it.

“You can’t think of _any_ reasons?” she replied, shaking her head imperceptibly, tightening the arms around her chest and gripping the fabric of the inside of her elbows between her fingers to temper her desire to lean forward and shake the man.

“No more than the usual.” Martin scoffed bitterly, boring his sights onto the Galley door, avoiding making any connection with her as his elbow came to sit on the armrest and he dropped his chin onto his clenched fist.

Deborah didn’t know how to react; she was struck by the unfamiliar need to defend herself, to wrap her hands around Martin’s neck in a fit of rage, and to fall back into her seat and curl her arms around her knees, hiding her face from the light.

She couldn’t even conjure a snappy response.

“Martin, I can say with the utmost sincerity that I have no idea what you seem to think I have done,” she remarked tensely, holding herself stiffly, her voice pitched softer yet more grating than its normal timbre, “but if something about me is offending you so much, then you should damn well speak up.”

Deborah didn’t wait for Martin to reply. She rose to her feet, glancing over the Captain long enough to take in the way his cheeks both paled and flushed while he suddenly looked very sad, or so she supposed; without a backwards look, she strode towards the flight-deck and set to work getting GERTI ready.

oOoOoOo

It was with a sluggish, weary temper that Deborah repacked her flight-bag in the porta-cabin. Mr Birling had been sent home, and the lads were waiting for her so that they could all take a taxi back to their respective homes…yet, even the prospect of her own bed couldn’t lighten her mood.

It wasn’t just the fact that Carolyn had made Philip search through her bag _again_ , unsettling all of her possessions; the entire day had been a disaster.

Sure, she had had some fun trying to get her hands on the Talisker (she would be leaving that part of the story out when she told Harry about it – he wouldn’t approve), and she had even found some fleeting joy in baiting Martin over his sudden decision to toady to Mr Birling’s every whim, but overall, it had been a miserable Birling day.

The loss of the tip didn’t sting as much as she had thought it might, she mused as she pulled out her nail varnish to retighten the cap, which Philip had left wonky. No, that was just Martin being Martin, and she could never be truly irritated with him for that; he wouldn’t be Martin if he didn’t have that peculiar ability to mess things up in such an entertaining way.

No…it was everything else.

The two of them had had many fits of bickering, which sometimes devolved into cheap shots, but this was the first time that Deborah had come away feeling genuinely…upset.

Upset right to the pit of her stomach.

She didn’t even know why…Martin’s opinion of her was hardly tantamount to anything…yet she was inexplicably depressed by the turn sharpness of his dismissal of her today.

She didn’t think he had been any ruder than normal…but it still stung, which made it all the worse.

Deborah paused, dropping the toiletries bag back into its larger counterpart, and lifted her hand to rub her curled fingers against her eyes.

She was just so tired of the day already, and the sun was still up.

With a swish and a clunk, the porta-cabin swung open on the second attempt, and Martin stepped in; Deborah watched as he pushed it shut, having to put in just a fraction more effort than he would have a few weeks beforehand.

“I won’t be long, just let me get this closed up.” Deborah informed Martin when he tread lightly towards her desk, hands linked in front of him, as if he were nervous, or considering further action.

“Good, that’s ah…that’s good.” Martin acknowledged, nodding systematically and drawing his bottom lip through his teeth as Deborah had learnt he did when he was anxious or deep in thought, “Um…Deborah?”

“Hmm?” she responded, raising an eyebrow for him to continue; she wasn’t in the mood for Martin in that moment.

Martin nodded awkwardly another couple of times, and then jolting as if remembering that he was meant to be speaking, he ploughed on in a typical example of his stuttering avalanche-like style of speech.

“I just wanted to ask – well, I wanted to say that today…today’s been pretty rotten, for both of us.” Deborah remained silent as Martin inhaled deeply, his chest heaving as he prepared to continue; then he sighed, his shoulders sagging, and he met her gaze directly, as if the nerves had fled from him, chased away by the same exhaustion that _she_ felt, “In light of that…look, Deborah…I don’t actually like fighting with you, it’s just-” Martin sighed again, shaking his head as if he doubted his own words, “would it be so difficult for you to show me even a shred of respect as your Captain?”

“ _Me_?” Deborah demanded, unable to quite comprehend what she had just heard.

How _dare_ he. She was so tired, far too tired to put up with Martin’s self-important twaddle. But that was alright…if Martin wanted to talk, they would talk, and he would damn well listen to what she had to say.

No sarcasm, no jesting, no letting it go because ‘it’s Martin’; no, Martin was going to stand there and endure every watt of raw honesty that Deborah could throw at him, and he was going to hear her for once.

There was too much going on in her life, too much that she wanted to scream at, and though she wasn’t going to let herself reach the point of screaming, there was nothing to stop her taking it out on Martin now that he had offered the opportunity of a golden laced plate.

Martin looked ready to defend himself, flushing indignantly, but she cut him off before he even started.

“Why should I show you _any_ respect as _Captain_ when you won’t even show _me_ the slightest respect as a _person_?” Deborah demanded, slamming her hands onto her flight-bag and clenching the fabric in her hands to ground her as best as possible.

“I – I – I-” Martin spluttered, freezing, arms ceasing to swing, eyes widening in confusion; he didn’t get any further than that.

“You insult me over insignificant things whenever you’re feeling _insecure_ as a Captain, you criticise every idea I put to you, even when they’re perfectly sound, you mock me when you spot any kind of flaw in my personality, and you’re perfectly willing to show me up and dump me when someone better, like a passenger or a pretty lady catches your eye,” Deborah listed every stray complaint that suddenly appeared in her mind, as if waiting for the chance to see the light; her chest was heaving, and Martin looked shocked, but she couldn’t stop, “I’ll admit, I like a joke, but you take every little thing as a personal attack, and you _turn it into_ a personal attack!”

“Deborah I-” Martin tried to interrupt, raising a hand to halt her litany, but he dropped it at the fiery glare that she sent at him.

“In all the time we’ve known each other, I have I _never_ disobeyed a direct order, it would be more than my job’s worth, and god knows that I am _trying_ – I am _trying_ to get along with you Martin, but you just won’t _let_ me.” Deborah continued, and she tampered down the flare of self-hatred that flared out of nowhere, telling her to shut up and stop talking, though she didn’t listen to it, “Sometimes I think we’re getting along fine, but then you just _flip,_ and we’re back to square one.”

“Deborah…” Martin implored; his eyes were watery, and his jaw was squared, and she had never seen him look so openly miserable; there was something else there too, but she just wanted to finish, clenching her fingers again in her bag.

“I don’t know how you can expect me to respect you, when you’re so _needlessly_ cruel to _me_ …” Deborah’s taut tone slowed, and her voice dropped; she met Martin’s eyes, a wobbly frown on her lips, “…and I have no idea what I’ve _done_.”

“I didn’t mean to do any of that-” Martin insisted, stepping forward, hand outstretched ever so slightly, as if to meet her across the desk; he paused again as Deborah scoffed bitterly, rubbing her lower arm over her eyes.

“Don’t give me that Martin,” she sneered, “it’s not difficult to see that you _despise_ me.”

She had expected Martin to respond indignantly, to justify his feelings, but nothing came. When she opened her eyes, it was to see Martin, cheeks paler than she had ever seen them, eyes boring into her face.

“I don’t despise you.” He said quietly, shaking his head imperceptibly as if the idea was a horrific, unknown entity that had never entered his psyche.

“What…?” Deborah asked, her voice lighter than she would ever wish it to be, yet so heavy.

As she watched, his eyes clouded over as if he were holding some kind of internal discussion, and his expression slackened, becoming stricken, and his hands darted up to drag down his face.

“I’m sorry…I’m so, _so sorry_ …” Martin bemoaned; he met Deborah’s gaze again, and she was momentarily thrown off guard by the heat behind his gaze, “I don’t despise you, _at all_ … _god_ , I’m sorry, I’m sorry you think that – because I don’t!”

“Then you better start explaining what your problem is, because I don’t understand.” Deborah replied shortly; she wasn’t sure that she believed him, but he had never looked so open.

Martin gnawed at his bottom lip, and looked around as if searching for somewhere to be other than the middle of the porta-cabin, but upon failing to find an alternative, he sucked in a steadying breath.

“It’s just…I _should_ , you know – I _should_ hate you, you, you represent _everything_ that I’m _against_ – you’re late, you’re lax about rules, in fact you openly flaunt them, you make snide remarks and snipes about things that you shouldn’t be able to notice, you – you’re so good at _everything_ , you’re so _perfect_ at everything you do and you barely even try, and you _definitely_ don’t _care_.” Martin started off cautious, but as he built up steam, Deborah could see the pent up frustration in his entire posture, as he made sharp, sweeping motions in the air, “And here I am, I’m not good at _anything_ much, and I had to try _so hard_ to get my licence, and now I’m _Captain_ – and you, you just bowl right over all of that, you undermine my authority and make it seem like all my efforts were for nothing if my _First Officer_ is ten times better than I am.”

“Martin-” Deborah tried to give him an exit, raising a hand to offer him a chance to stop, but he shook his head.

“No, you wanted me to explain, so I am!” Martin told her, sounding more like a Captain than Deborah could ever recall, “I absolutely _should_ hate you, I want so much to hate you for undermining me at every turn – but I _don’t_ , I just _don’t_ , and that’s so _bloody_ horrible, because I don’t know whether you’re coming or going…”

“But all of those are things that I _do_ ,” Deborah said, feeling as if she were trying to bite it back; she didn’t want to talk anymore, “They’re not what I _am_.”

Martin smirked sardonically, a flickering image that faded into a wavy frown that intersected his slowly flushing cheeks, turning scarlet with exertion.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I hate the things that you do,” he assured her, “But I don’t, and I don’t think I ever _could_ , despise you…I don’t, I really don’t – I like you, I like _you_ a lot.” Martin shrugged as if he had no idea what else to do, “It’s just…when we get along, I like you, I really do, but then I remember all those other things, and I start thinking that maybe it’s all just a trick, that somehow you’re going to use it to undermine me, or make me feel small, and then I…make sure that you _can’t_.”

“I’m not…I’m _trying_ to be friendly.” Deborah informed him, taking her eyes from his face to peer at the dented zip that ran along the length of her bag, “and even if I _was_ , there’s no need for you to be as cruel as you are sometimes.”

“Am I cruel?” Martin asked; his hands moved about as if he couldn’t quite decide where they should sit, at one point pushing his hat further onto his head; then in a move that seemed to remove a cloak of Captain and leave the pure Martin in its wake, he plucked his hat from his head and lobbed it the little way to fall haplessly on his own desk, “I didn’t realise…I never meant to _hurt_ you.”

“Then what did you _think_ you were doing?” Deborah retorted dully; now she was the one itching to leave, fingers flexing individually where they were hidden from sight. She should have been heading home to hear Harry’s take on the rugby, but even _this_ was a better alternative. At least with _this_ , she could uncover some new ground.

“That’s the _point_ – I haven’t been thinking about anyone but _me_.” Martin insisted, jabbing at his chest with both hands, “This hasn’t even been _about you_ – all I’ve been thinking about is how authoritative _I_ am, and whether you’re undermining _me_ …I didn’t even think about how all of this might be affecting _you,_ I didn’t think you cared.”

Deborah didn’t respond immediately; there was so much to take in, and she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. But Martin was there, right there, in that moment, and he was being completely honest…he even said that he didn’t hate her.

Now wasn’t that something.

“Are you thinking about me _now_?” she inquired softly, barely able to hold Martin’s gaze for more than a second, but forcing herself to endure the range of emotions that she couldn’t decipher in his expression.

“Yes, yes I am, and I’m so _sorry_ …I suppose I never realised that you might actually want to get along.” Martin released a sort of truncated chuckle, and Deborah had to fight not to present a minute smirk as he continued, “Deborah…I promise, I will do whatever it takes to make you forgive me.”

Even as he clasped his hands together, Deborah shook her head, wincing at the fogginess in her mind.

“Don’t let it bother you, Martin; it’s water under the bridge.” She remarked nonchalantly; she needed to regain her composure; it wasn’t okay, but Martin could think that it was, “Let’s just try and maintain an amiable working relationship from here on out.”

“Absolutely - I’d like that.” Martin agreed, nodding hastily, a smile threatening to meet the red in his cheeks, “But I still want to make it up to you, because it’s not okay if I’ve been upsetting you-”

“No, it’s not.” Deborah interjected; Martin sighed in acknowledgement.

“No…but there must be something…” his voice trailed off as he stared into the middle distance; the Martin clapped his hands together, making Deborah jump slightly in her addled state, and proclaimed, “I know – Deborah, what have I done _today?_ I can’t make up for everything I’ve ever said to you, but I can make up for _today_.”

A creeping sense of trepidation wriggled in Deborah’s gut, and though she released her bag from her iron grip, the tension in her shoulders never faded.

“Martin, this isn’t nec-” Deborah groaned, shaking her head.

“Yes it is, now tell me what I’ve done wrong today.” Martin insisted, striding so that he was standing on the other side of her desk, hands coming to rest on the empty folders that she had placed there years ago to make it look as if she were busy.

Deborah sighed, meeting Martin’s eyes with a look that she hoped communicated her feelings on the matter. She had no desire to let Martin know what had set her on edge…and yet, she almost _did_ want him to know.

He may not have known how to fix it, but at least he would understand. Unlike Harry, who would see the tension when she returned home, try to fix it (with a valiant effort), and yet never asked her what had caused her distress in the first place.

“I suppose…when you made that comment about me not being a ‘pretty pilot’…” Deborah averted her eyes as Martin’s narrowed, hoping that the tingle in her cheeks was not a blush as she suspected it might be, “I mean…I know it’s a man’s job more often than not, and that I don’t usually put in a lot of effort, but…” she trailed off, slowly raising her eyes back to Martin’s face.

He had closed his own eyes and was shaking his head as if scolding himself inwardly.

“I’m sorry…it didn’t even occur to me.” He muttered; Deborah nodded, thinking that that would be the end, but then he said, “Anything else?”

Deborah shrugged, but at Martin’s unimpressed quirk of an eyebrow, she conceded to his efforts, though her fingers still flitted across the stationary that was always atop her desk.

“You said something about me getting on my hands and knees – when we were talking about Mr Birling.” She suggested, “That was…not nice…”

Martin was once again chewing at his bottom lip, and Deborah wondered how he still had one to chew on, as she couldn’t tell whether he was deep in thought, or had just become stuck in a loop.

“Do you remember _all_ the horrible things I say to you?” Martin asked gravely after a moment.

“No.” Deborah lied; she made sure not to break eye contact, to make it true, but after a while, she couldn’t quite work out what she was achieving.

Martin, it seemed, had not wasted the time, as his face lit up, and he pushed away from the desk.

“I’ve got an idea!” he declared, the small wicked grin that he sometimes adopted making a fleeting appearance; that only made Deborah’s suspicions lurch forwards, as the feeling of already being wrong-footed was still fresh, “Go sit on the sofa.”

“How is that going to help you apologise?” she retorted; it would be wrong to just follow orders when she had no clue as to what Martin’s intentions were.

“Just trust me, it will.” Martin assured her, pointing determinedly to the decrepit sofa, “Now go and sit down.”

Deborah did as she was told, keeping an eye on Martin as she walked to the sofa and sat down in the centre, flooding with a sense of undeserved relief and the comfort of the cushions beneath her.

Martin followed in her wake, and came to a stop just a foot in front of her; she watched with a delayed, trepid curiosity that overwhelmed her desire to make a smooth comment. Martin’s dexterous fingers clenched at his sides, and he practically winced, pressing his eyes shut as if preparing himself for a slow death.

Then he swiftly, before he could mentally talk himself out of it, lowered himself to his knees.

Deborah was frozen in shock, her eyes she assumed were as wide as saucers, as Martin shifted his weight so that he was comfortable, and placed his hands steadily on the edge of the sofa, before raising his head to meet her eyes, as if the very act pained him.

“Okay…I am sorry that I made that comment about you getting on your hands and knees –so here I am, on _my_ knees, because this seems like a fair way to apologise.” Martin explained, his tone steely and unwilling, but he was still doing it; Deborah could only gape, unable to form coherent thoughts, “and I’m sorry for anything else that I’ve said that might have hurt you…I would like it – I mean, I wouldn’t mind, if we could try and work together properly…maybe get to know each other without arguing…”

“That’s alright,” Deborah managed to utter, still analysing every inch of Martin’s face for signs of insanity breaking through, perhaps even a spontaneous fever, “really, Martin, that’s alright, you can get up now.”

“Nope, not yet.” Martin shook his head and stated plainly; he seemed to have regained some self-important confidence, as he then placed his hands on Deborah’s knees, squeezing soothingly when she stiffened and stared openly, “And most importantly, I am _sorry_ for implying that you’re not pretty…my dad would murder me if he found out I’d said that to _any_ woman.” Martin smiled, and then his expression flipped, as he realised what he had said, his hands coming up defensively in front of his face, “Not that you’re not _actually_ pretty – because you _are_ , yo-you’re very pretty…I mean, you’re…well you’re lovely, _stunning_ even – not that _I-_ ”

“ _Martin_ , Martin you can stop now, you can get up.” Deborah said hastily, making upwards movements with her hands, unsure of what her facial expressions were doing, just trying to force away a smile, a blush, and a smirk all at the same time; she tried to shake away the thought, but she couldn’t help noting that it was _nice_ to hear someone say things like that. Harry never did.

Martin scrambled clumsily to his feet, brushing down his uniform and moving hurriedly away from her to snatch up his Captain’s hat and thrust it forcefully atop his head. His cheeks were burning so brightly that his freckles were almost invisible.

Deborah hoisted herself up, but did not move so quickly towards her flight-bag. She walked slowly to her desk, watching Martin collect himself after his complete abandonment of all Captainly virtues.

“Apology accepted.” Deborah remarked flippantly, getting Martin’s attention as the flustering ceased.

When she slung her bag over her elbow and turned to face him, Martin shared with her a tight-lipped smile and a stunted nod, digging his hands as far into his pockets as they would go.

“You’re welcome.” He replied, sounding both self-assured and unsure, in a way that only Martin could achieve, “So…we’re turning over a new leaf then?”

Deborah sighed, turning her eyes away from him; despite all her efforts over the past months, and the entire argument that they had _just_ emerged from, she _still_ felt that tiny prickle of rebellion that told her to stick his offer where he’d never find it and carry on as they were.

Thankfully, she was too mentally exhausted to listen to it.

“Of course, Captain.” She answered drolly, earning another tentative smile; Deborah couldn’t think of what else she might say, where else they might venture if they talked any more, so she ended the conversation the only way that she could, “Do you think that the taxi will have arrived yet?”


	7. Fitton

**Fitton**

Everything was alright.

Everything _would_ be alright.

Of course, it was positively tipping it down outside, like the clouds had thrown a tantrum and were punishing the Earth with a torrent of all the grimy drops that they had stolen from the seas below. Even the sky was a murky grey, trying to persuade her that today was a bad day, that nothing would succeed despite all of her efforts.

But Deborah took this all in with a determined smirk as she surveyed the scene through the kitchen window, spattered as it was with the remnants of the weather’s ammunition.

Harry was pattering about the sitting room, sunk into the sofa with a bowl of cereals on his lap while he lounged in his pyjamas. The past week he had been off of work with a frankly appalling bout of flu, and though he had been adamant that he was fine, Deborah had insisted that he stay at home one more day to ensure that the virus was clear of his system.

The last thing that she needed was for him to return home that evening grumpy and discontented because he had overexerted himself.

Far better for her plans was a well-rested husband who had nothing to distract him from the fact that he missed his wife and _couldn’t wait_ to see her.

As Deborah systematically ran last night’s dishes through the sink, she ran her plans through her mind one more time, checking every inch of them and filling in any holes.

Harry’s sick week had fortunately (although it hadn’t felt like it at the time) coincided with a slump in MJN’s activity. They had been contracted by a Mr Goddard, whose prolonged absence had meant that she was allowed to leave work at a sensible time every day.

The end result was the somewhat overdue realisation that the intimacy between the two of them had all but disappeared. Sure, Deborah wasn’t expecting the heat of passion every night, or even the alluring pull of their first few months – hell, she wasn’t even expecting the original lightness that they had had to begin with.

All she wanted was for some kind of connection with her husband. There was one there, she knew it, that kind of thing didn’t just _go away_ …she just needed to reassert some kind of…pleasure in each other’s company, some desire to spend time together.

They practically lived separate lives, and she understood that, it would be impractical not to. But when push came to shove, they were a married couple, and no matter what else happened, they came home to each other.

They just needed a little push was all.

Which was why she had the perfect gift waiting for her to pick up later; a gift that would prompt in Harry a swell of affection, the likes of which he hadn’t shown for a while, and that surety that he loved her would be back in place, and they could enjoy each other’s company like they hadn’t for too long.

Deborah would have jumped at the hands that fell on her shoulders had she not heard Harry padding through the kitchen, coming to a cheerful stop at her back, a solid mass that dragged her from her musings and back into reality.

“Shouldn’t you be at work soon?” Harry inquired, peering around her head to take in her expression; with his hands he swept the hair that fell over her face and threatened to get splashed, behind her shoulders, tutting as if he had performed a holy chore that he was so daily burdened with.

Deborah could tell him with a degree of certainty that it had been well over a month since he had paid close enough attention to try and save her hair from a soaking, or even noticed that it was now long enough to actually be at risk.

She had stopped dyeing it as well; unlike the abandoning of the shorter crop, this decision hadn’t been made with the intention of catching Harry’s eye. No, she had done it because she preferred her own, naturally more chestnut shade.

If that had been compounded by Martin’s mockery last Birling day, then no one was any the wiser.

“I’ll go to work when I’ve done the dishes…unless you’d rather do it?” Deborah retorted, glancing over her shoulder; at the wrinkling of Harry’s nose and the shaking of his head, she continued, “I didn’t think so. I don’t know when I’ll be home, whether it’ll be early or not, Mr Goddard’s been messing us around.”

“Well don’t rush if you’ve got things to do.” Harry instructed her, squeezing her shoulders lightly; Deborah placed the final plate delicately on the draining board and flicking her hands to remove the last of the water, turned so that her back was against the sink.

Harry readjusted his hands so that they were once again on her shoulders, and smiled briefly at the movement; it wasn’t quite an embrace, but if Deborah was honest, she wasn’t in the mood for Harry in a cuddly phase, so it suited her quite well. Rather than place her hands on his waist, she folded her arms over her chest, settling into a relaxed state.

“Even if I am let out early, the lads might ask me stay behind, you know…clear up and chat, that sort of thing.” Deborah explained; she had been working particularly hard to befriend Martin, to get some sort of relationship running that didn’t need to be forced, and she was actually quite proud of the time that they could spend together without bickering –proud enough that it was one of the few things that she wanted Harry to know about, to be impressed with, “I’ve been getting on really well with Martin lately; I reckon he might actually stick around. I wouldn’t mind-”

“Yeah, that’s great, dear.” Harry interrupted; Deborah thought for a moment that he looked disappointed, but that was eclipsed by her own feeling of disdain as he dismissed the first piece of exciting news she had shared in weeks, “Look, if you’d rather spend time with your friends, that’s okay.”

In an attempt to regain the feeling of being steady and decidedly not shaky on her metaphorical feet, Deborah smirked salaciously and batted her eyelashes.

“It’s more that they’d like to spend more time around _me_.” She drawled; Harry merely chuckled, and gave her shoulders another squeeze, shaking his head.

“Hey, you may be Captain, but we both know that deep down, under all that swagger, you’re just a bit _silly_.” He retorted, grinning as if they were both in on some fantastic joke.

Deborah knew that he wasn’t being deliberately unkind; she knew him well enough to know that he genuinely thought that he was being funny and affectionate.

“ _Good_ silly?” she replied, trying not to purse her lips though her arms tightened around her chest; she made sure to maintain eye contact lest he think that the slight dip in her voice was down to an injured ego, “As in, that’s why you like me?”

“Of course that’s what I mean.” Harry leaned back as if to survey her again, making a show of looking her over and double checking, “What else?” he assured her, “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t not-so-secretly silly.”

Deborah held her tongue. He loved her. That was all that mattered. She hated to sound like Martin, even in her own head, but she _wasn’t_ silly; she had an image to maintain, and _silly_ was _not_ a Deborah Richardson trait.

Clearing her throat, and rolling her eyes, Deborah released one hand from its shelter, reaching over to tap Harry on the elbow before retracting it, and smiling wanly. He nodded and raised his eyebrows, letting her know that he was listening.

“Harry… I thought that perhaps, when I get back, we could…have a little fun.” Deborah suggested, lowering her tone and adding just the right amount of allure to her voice as she shifted her body in just the right way, subtly, “ _You know_ , make an evening of it…spend some proper time together…”

Now he looked interested; excellent.

“That sounds perfect; it’s been a while since we had a proper heart to heart.” Harry agreed, stoking the backs of his fingers down her upper arms; then he grinned again and stepped over to the sink, sweeping an arm around her back and manoeuvring her towards the sitting room, “ _Now_ – you need to go to work, you silly pilot.”

Deborah allowed herself to be swept along, snatching her jacket and flight-bag into her arms as she stepped away from Harry’s guiding hand and made her own way through the rooms. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the abrupt change of subject, disgruntled she supposed, but she also wasn’t sure what else she would have had to say.

“I’ll see you later then.” She called when she was standing by the door, knowing that she should leave of face Carolyn’s wrath, “don’t do anything too taxing.”

“I won’t.” Harry promised, already back on the sofa, dragging his computer onto his lap; Deborah was pleased to see that he looked up long enough to treat her to one last smile, “Have a nice day.”

“You too.” She replied; she made a movement as if to blow a kiss, but stopped herself.

Without another word, she swung the door open, wincing at the torrent of rain that buffeted her clothes and hair to the point that she might as well have not washed either the previous night.

It didn’t matter though; if everything went to plan, it was going to be a good day.

oOoOoOo

The rain didn’t let up for the entirety of the drive to the airfield; in fact, Deborah was pretty sure that the buckets of water turned into bathtubs that thudded obnoxiously against her windshield.

By the time she forced her way into the porta-cabin, her thin raincoat was so saturated that when she looked down to evaluate why she was so cold, she discovered that it was transparent to the point that she could identify even the buttons on her jacket.

“God, the rain’s horrible outside.” Deborah lamented as she removed her coat, throwing it over the hook on the back of the door and leaving it to drip before turning to survey the rest of the crew, “…and inside….”

The scene that met her eyes was by far one of the most interesting that she had seen on her time at MJN, and yet peculiarly, it seemed just about right.

Carolyn was huffing as she filled out paperwork, on Deborah’s desk no less (at least it was getting _some_ use), while Martin was slouched behind _his_ desk, elbows supporting his weight as he chewed on the end of his pen; he looked up at the sound of Deborah’s voice, smiling briefly before going back to work.

Arthur, it seemed, was attempting to find the source of the water that was trickling through the ceiling, a preoccupied expression on his face as he dragged the knee-high foot ladder around behind him.

“Deborah, you are forty-five minutes late.” Carolyn scolded without even looking up, “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Deborah smirked and rolled her eyes, wandering with her arms loosely folded to Arthur’s heels, observing his quest through curious eyes; difficult start aside, today promised to be amusing if nothing else.

“Oh dear, how terribly remiss of me.” She replied insincerely, sending a pleasant smirk in Carolyn’s direction, “And Mr Goddard is, of course, so famously punctual. I do hope I haven’t kept him waiting.”

“It’s a job, Deborah, a job for which you are being paid like any other and I expect you to be on time.” Carolyn said sternly, pointing a pencil threateningly.

Deborah knew that her pinched expression was only masking a mild despair, so she merely shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She was certain that she had heard Martin scoff, but when she glanced over, his face was as smooth and focused as before.

“I am chastened and ashamed.” Deborah sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her chest and fluttering her eyes; once Carolyn had rolled her eyes and decided to ignore her, Deborah caught Arthur just before he stepped up his ladder, and patted him affectionately on the back, “Arthur, tea.”

Arthur paused in his task, hammer still held slightly aloft, and nodded dutifully, acknowledging Deborah’s greeting with a pleased smile of his own. It wasn’t quite as glittery as usual, and Deborah assumed that even _Arthur_ was finding taking care of the turbulent weather tedious.

“Uh, yep, will do, Deborah,” Arthur replied, tapping her lightly on the head with his hammer, “Just trying to fix this leak first.”

“Oh well, in that case: Arthur, _tea_?” Deborah offered, brushing him away with a flap of her hand; she was feeling generous today, and it would hardly put her out to be nice.

“Wow!” Arthur exulted; it was definitely worth it, Deborah thought, as she watched Arthur’s face light up, grinning a grin full of teeth and joy, “ _You’re_ making _me_ tea?”

Deborah was already by the kettle, listening to it click and gurgle by her elbow as she turned to lean against the desk-turned-counter.

“I _know_. It’s a topsy-turvy day of misrule, isn’t it?” she drawled, as she watched Arthur clamber onto the ladder and begin tapping away at the ceiling, eyes still on her.

“Cracking! Loads of milk, four sugars, please!” he requested; Deborah nodded in response, and watched him, biting the corner of her lips. She wasn’t entirely sure that Arthur’s efforts weren’t going to cause more damage than good, given the aimless nature of his search for the source of the leak, but she decided to let him try.

As Arthur started to hum an awkward jumbled tune under his breath, and then proceed to interrogate her about a tune that she had been singing god knows how long ago. She answered his questions with only half a mind on what he was saying; Deborah was more concerned with watching Martin work.

He looked so much calmer than he had only weeks before, more relaxed in himself. She briefly entertained the thought that it was down to the ease with which he was now interacting with _her_ , but in truth, she knew that it was probably the belief that he wasn’t going to be ousted from his post.

Martin’s hand swept across the page, and his tongue poked through his lips in concentration. It was when she saw his eyes flicker towards her for the second time, retreating the next second, that she decided to retrieve another mug from the desktop.

As Deborah poured out the drinks, leaving Arthur’s tea on the side for him to find later, she took the remaining two in her hands, relishing the heat after her dreary journey, and sauntered over to Martin’s desk.

He looked up from his work, which she didn’t even want to ponder, as her shadow coloured the white, sitting back in his chair and stretching his hands out before him, letting his shoulders click as one hand pressed to the top of the hat on the edge of the desk, as if checking that it was still there.

“Here you go.” Deborah said warmly, placing the mug of steaming coffee beside Martin’s hand, nudging it closer when he raised an eyebrow, “Fresh coffee…just how you like it.”

“ _Hmmm_ , thank _you_ …” Martin drew out his thanks in a rolling moan, “Coffee with nothing in it?”

“As I said, _just_ how you like it.” Deborah drawled, batting her eyelashes sarcastically, and balancing her weight on one arm, settling comfortably on the stiff plastic top of the desk.

While Martin plucked up the coffee, inhaling the wafting scent with a groan, Deborah lifted her own tea to her lips and hoisted herself as elegantly as she could onto his desk, letting her legs swing fractionally as she watched with a small smile gracing her lips.

She was growing quite fond of Martin’s little quirks; his overly compensated reactions to the simplest of pleasures was one of them, his willingness to express his enjoyment of such pleasures without the self-consciousness that shadowed his every other move was another.

Mid sip, Martin’s eyes widened, his eyebrows leaping up to his hairline, and he sat forward quickly, addressing her directly; he glanced unhappily at her choice in seating arrangement, but visibly held back the temptation to criticise her for it.

“I thought of another one this morning.” Martin remarked matter-of-factly, his pride evident in his tone and serious expression; Deborah had to agree, her games were of the utmost importance.

“Oh yes?” she replied; leaning forward with a quirked eyebrow, holding Martin’s gaze.

He smirked straight back, so proud of himself that Deborah couldn’t help but enjoy the competitive tingle that rippled up her spine.

“What are you doing this time?” Carolyn interjected, just as Martin was about to answer.

Deborah glanced over her shoulder and smirked with a silent chuckle; she had known that the older woman wasn’t really working. Carolyn was just listening in, interested in what her crew were doing despite her protests.

Then again, she had been watching the two of them more closely since they had called a truce, wrinkling her nose and trying to work out when her pilots had stopped trying to bite each other’s heads off.

“Books That Sound More Interesting With The Final Letter Knocked Off.” Deborah explained, taking another sip of coffee.

As she had expected, Carolyn abandoned her stationary and clasped her hands together over the elbows that she balanced atop the desk, turning Deborah’s chair so that she was better facing she and Martin.

“Oh, right. Er, what have you got so far?” Carolyn inquired, failing to sound anything other than part of their game, despite her efforts to the contrary.

“Of Mice and Me; and Three Men in a Boa.” Deborah said, enunciating each title carefully; she was rather pleased with how well her game was being received. She had spent most of an evening with Harry thinking it up in an attempt to make their next flight more bearable.

“Oh. Ah, ah! Far From The Madding Crow.” Carolyn suggested, nodding as if to subliminally convince her that hers was a _good_ suggestion.

“Oh, very good!” Deborah congratulated her; she turned swiftly back to Martin; he had been so eager to put forward his idea that she couldn’t let him wait too long, “We’ll have that. And what’s _your_ new one, Martin?”

She thought about placing an encouraging hand on the wrist that lay on the desk beside her, but aborted the gesture before it could be properly executed, dropping her hand down onto the desk; despite her efforts, the back of her fingers still brushed the cuff of his sleeve.

Martin’s cheeks tinged red, but it seemed to be more from anticipation than any acknowledgment of Deborah’s attentions. He splayed his hands into the air and leant back in his chair, biting his bottom lip as if prepping himself for a big reveal.

“The Hound of the Baskerville!” Martin declared excitedly, beaming expectantly at Deborah until he realised that she wasn’t replying with the praise he so obviously expected, “I’ve taken the ‘s’ off!”

 _Oh Martin_ , the words flitted across Deborah’s mind, and she slipped an arm around her stomach to temper the warm tingle that took root there; he couldn’t be useless in a useless way could he – no, he had to be useless in such an endearingly _Martin_ way.

“Almost good.” Deborah remarked through her teeth, not quite a lie; Martin’s smile brightened where it had begun to dim, although she wasn’t sure that she could let the opportunity pass without a pinch, to make Martin fluster, “Certainly better than when you took the ‘s’ off The Mill on the Floss to make The Mill on the Flos.”

With a sigh, Martin rolled his eyes and nodded, conceding defeat; his forehead crinkled in such a way that Deborah just _knew_ he would try to win at some point later in the day.

Before she could retort though, there was an almighty crash, and a sizeable chunk of the ceiling crumbled to the floor, releasing a gush of murky rainwater onto Arthur’s head as he shielded his head with his arms, stumbling down from the ladder, providing an inopportune distraction.

oOoOoOo

Martin’s safety procedures were so very, very dull. Deborah didn’t know why she was listening to them at all. Probably the same reason that he had managed to convince her to come out to sit on GERTI, where the rain pounded even louder on the metal shell of the cabin.

Probably the same gut reaction to his miserable face when she had called his Ops rotten, and then proceeded to encourage him that they actually _would_ like to hear them. It turned out that _didn’t_ like it when Martin adopted his sad puppy dog face and drooped like an under-watered dandelion.

Which was, she supposed, how she ended up perched on the end of Row C, one leg crossed lazily across the other, the elbow of one arm wedged atop her knee as the same hand curled and supported her chin.

Then Martin had made a typically Martin-ish comment about Captain’s donning their caps, and she and Carolyn had had a good old laugh at his expense.

Deborah had thought that Martin would take it in his stride; they had been working on that after all, the harmless joshing, the friendly banter, and the understanding that not everything was meant as a serious barb.

But Martin had stormed off to mope in the flight-deck on his own, and Deborah had been left feeling, of all things, _guilty_ for upsetting him. It seemed that she had struck a nerve. She knew how much being professional meant to him, that it was a matter of personal pride rather than a desire to be better than everyone else; Martin genuinely couldn’t help it.

So now, in an attempt to make things right, because for some reason the thought of Martin being truly unhappy because of something she had said made unpleasant worms somersault in her guts, Deborah was hovering outside the flight-deck door.

Out of sight from the rest of the crew, she had no qualms about wrapping her arms around her chest and treading back and forth in the small space, wondering whether she should even bother going in to see Martin. She wasn’t nervous, she just…wasn’t sure what to say.

She knew what she _should_ say, or what would make him feel better, at the very least.

With a sigh, Deborah decided that that was the best course of action, so pushed the door to the flight-deck open quietly, and lingered in the doorway, stepping in far enough that she could be seen when Martin turned in his seat to see who had entered.

“Erm, Martin?” she asked tentatively, hands clasping together at her front; she watched Martin’s shoulders sag as he slouched in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes, leaving only the top of his hat in sight.

“What do you want?” Martin sulked; it wasn’t a dismissal, so Deborah tread lightly to her seat, and slipped calmly into it, turning to the side with her legs through the gap under the arm so that she could address him properly, “Come to laugh at me again?”

“Apologies, Martin. That was very childish of us.”

“Yes it ruddy well was.” Martin replied, trying to sound waspish but coming across more miserable as he conceded, and turned to face Deborah, a frown marring the light flush on his cheeks.

“Yes. Perfectly reasonable emergency procedure.” Deborah agreed; this was what he wanted. Martin just wanted them to agree to his procedures; it wasn’t too difficult to give him that, not if it made him happier.

She may have liked it when he was flustered or irritated, but this was the wrong kind of irritated. Martin must not have understood though, or perhaps he still suspected that anything nice that came from her mouth was a trap, as his eyebrows knitted and he straightened up defensively, the tension in his limbs paramount.

“Are you being funny again?” he demanded suspiciously, narrowing his eyes to search her face.

Deborah raised her hands in surrender and tried to put on a genuine smile, which ended up being more of a twisted and wavering frown.

“No! No, I mean it.” She emphasised, gesturing to the hat atop his head, spurred on as Martin sat back in his seat, nodding imperceptibly even as his hand shot to his hat, pressing it down ever so slightly, “The hat makes it clear to confused, frightened passengers that you are in charge. Absolutely.”

“Exactly!” Martin exclaimed, arms extending dramatically; it was amazing how quickly he believed that she was on his side.

“Entirely sensible.” Deborah agreed, nodding encouragingly. She felt…wrong-footed, not quite sure where to take the conversation. As Martin was sagging ever more in his seat, she found that although she wanted to talk to him, wanted to continue their prevailing pleasantries, all that came to mind was to poke and prod at each other…and it wasn’t really the time for that.

Martin shook his head, and in a sweeping movement, took the hat from his head and plopped it on the control panel. Deborah leant forward and folded her arms to rest over the arm of her seat, listening patiently.

“It’s nothing to do with showing off about being the captain.” Martin insisted drearily, quirking his eyebrows sardonically; it was odd, really, as all that he had even expressed any concern about was _being the Captain_.

“No.” Deborah wasn’t sure what else to say; for once, she was at a loss. All that she could find it in herself to do was trace her eyes over Martin’s features and listen to what he was saying; surely something would make itself apparent if she gazed long enough.

“I mean, God knows I could write “Captain” on my forehead in lipstick and people still wouldn’t get it.” Martin exclaimed, snorting a little at his own self-inflicted jab.

Deborah snorted with laughter, unable to stop herself, and before she realised, she had to raise her hand to hide her trembling lips behind, fighting back a smile and a giggle; _god_ , she didn’t _giggle_.

“What? What have I done _now_?” Martin demanded, shifting closer to peer at her face; Deborah thought that he looked more bewildered than he ever had, as if he was seeing a unicorn or the like. At least he was acknowledging that he was partly to blame for the shenanigans that took place aboard GERTI.

“No, no, noth-nothing. I mean, not you.” Deborah insisted, looking down at the controls so that Martin wouldn’t see the soppy humour in her eyes; the image was just too funny; she was always _telling_ people that Martin was _funny_ , every time they questioned her decision to put up with him…that didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing, to be shattering her stoic image so – then again, for all her concealed smirks, he had never made her laugh quite like this…it was nice, “I was – I was just hoping you weren’t thinking of putting that in the Operating Procedure.”

Martin’s face contorted into a brighter, redder, grin that he too was clearly trying to hold back, as he chuckled in a rolling, low timbre, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Deborah supposed that she _had_ wanted to be friends…perhaps they weren’t doing as disastrously as she had thought.

“What, you mean, “First Officer leaves through nearest exit. Captain writes ‘Captain’ on forehead with lipstick, dons cap, enters cabin.” Martin tried to carry on the joke, empowered by his success.

“In unlikely event of captain non-recognition, captain doffs cap, gestures to lipstick inscription …” Deborah continued, unable to supress her mirth any longer.

When she was able to raise her head from her hand, which was still admirably covering her mouth, it was to take in Martin’s contented, genuinely _happy_ expression. He really did look nice when he was happy, Deborah mused distractedly, not bad at all.

There was a moment more, where Deborah felt that she might say something, but was too caught off guard by the unreadable, but not unpleasant light in Martin’s eyes as he watched her.

“What?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Martin shrugged, but he didn’t take his eyes from her.

“It’s just…I’ve never, uh, I’ve never seen you smile like that.” He explained weakly, clearing his throat awkwardly when he was met with no response other than a curious pursing of Deborah’s lips, “It’s…um, nice, you know…it makes you whole face…light up.”

Unsure of how to respond to that, and feeling to her horror, a little bit self-conscious, as if she wanted to suddenly curl in on herself, and hide her face, Deborah simply nodded, looking away.

There was another pause, this time Deborah was far more aware of the fact that Martin was beside her. To her relief, Martin changed the subject.

“Why do they always think you’re the captain?” Martin asked, sounding world weary and lost, looking across the flight-deck for words of wisdom, “I mean, you’re smaller than me, and – and this isn’t a sexist remark, it’s just…there aren’t many female Captains, and you’re definitely….that.”

Deborah waved away the uncertainty on Martin’s face, the newly acquired look of someone who was trying desperately to reform their ways and _not_ insult their colleague, and shrugged lazily, raising a hand to inspect her fingernails.

“Oh, that’s easy. ’Cause I don’t care.” She explained, nodding definitely at Martin to drive home the point, “Captains don’t care. I’ve been a first officer, been a captain, been a first officer again. All the same to me. So long as you’re happy, who gives a toss how many rings there are on your sleeve?”

The hypocrisy of her gung-ho statement dug tiny nail-marks into her chest, but Deborah told herself that it was entirely different. Martin didn’t need real advice, he needed advice that would make him feel better about himself.

“Whereas you always look like you want to be the captain, so people assume you can’t be one. You’ve gotta lose that look.” She concluded.

 _Don’t lose that look_ , she was saying inwardly, gazing sadly at Martin as he digested that information, playing with his epaulets in the absence of his hat, _Don’t ever, ever, lose that look, Martin Crieff._

She wasn’t even sure why she wanted that at all.

“But I _have_ always wanted to be an airline captain.” Martin insisted, meeting Deborah’s gaze as if that were a point of great importance.

“Really?” Deborah inquired; this was interesting, he didn’t often talk about his personal life. This burst of honesty was as remarkable as it was fascinating.

“Yes, ever since I was six.” Martin continued, the height of seriousness written across his face, not a lick of a blush on his cheeks. Deborah had to admit, her heart did go out to him, just a fraction.

“Ah. And before that?” she replied, returning to her position, leaning in with her elbows on the arm of her seat. It was more comfortable to talk to him face to face like that, it allowed them a way to communicate without the carrier of necessity between them.

At this, Martin did blush, his fingers lacing together for something to do as he drew his bottom lip through his teeth and shrugged helplessly.

“I wanted to be an aeroplane.” He said sheepishly, a half-whisper, as if it were a well-kept secret that he had chosen to divulge to her and only here, the height of trust and companionship.

 _Oh, Martin, Honey…_ Deborah felt the tickling of warmth in her chest swell to the point of overflowing, and she was filled with the urge to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze; it was horrible, like a rush of affection tempered with a hatred of what Martin’s words were making her think.

Now it all made sense; it wasn’t about being Captain at all. Everything Martin was, was the product of some childhood dream that had never been allowed to flutter free; it was horrifically endearing, and she wanted it to stop… _Oh, darling…you utter sod…_

“I see.” Was all that Deborah could think to say, nodding with a controlled smile on the tip of her lips as the conversation moved on, and Arthur joined them a few minutes later.

oOoOoOo

The day passed from there in a slow dredge of hours, in which Deborah relaxed into the most rewarding train of conversation she and Martin had ever had; if it hadn’t been for the content of the conversations, she might have forgotten entirely about her anxiousness regarding Harry.

One good thing to come out of it was that they were succeeding in getting to know each other, without the hindrance of protocols, or rules, or silly pretences. And the more they talked, the more sure Deborah became that she hadn’t been wrong when she had told Harry that she might end up liking their new (though not so new anymore) Captain.

To top it all off, Martin seemed to feel the same; he actually laughed at her jokes, smiled in despair at her digs, and opened up with his real opinions. One such instance…

“There isn’t, though. After the age of thirty, you just don’t meet anyone new.” Martin stressed, dramatic hand motions in play as he engaged Deborah’s gaze seriously, as if the point he was making was a very important one that she should most definitely know about, “You’re on your raft with your friends, and everyone else is on their raft. Sometimes the rafts bump into each other, but there’s no raft-hopping.” He made his next point with an aborted shrug, twirling his hat on the tip of his finger before hanging it on the edge of the chair, “And I’ve managed to get on an all-boys raft.”

Deborah held her tongue rather than point out, as she had been about to, that _she_ was in fact, _not_ a boy, and very much on his raft. It seemed…not inappropriate…but she wasn’t sure why she felt that needed pointing out at all, or why it mattered that Martin notice his mistake _right away_.

“Well, what about cabin crew?” she suggested, settling back in her seat, legs now rested atop the arms of their seats between them; they had over the course of the day set up a sort of cosy clubhouse arrangement, with each of them turned towards each other and propped comfortably in their seats.

“Hmm, well, for two very different reasons, I’m afraid neither Arthur nor Carolyn quite float my boat.” Martin replied, wincing with mock sincerity and rolling his eyes.

Once again, Deborah didn’t reply to that, though her hands did lift to motion lightly to herself; again, Martin had seemingly forgotten to acknowledge her in his headcount, and that made a nerve in her ego twitch uncomfortably.

She let it go.

oOoOoOo

Carolyn had said a resounding no to her drinks idea, so Deborah had nabbed a bottle of water and two glasses from the Galley, and carried them back to the flight-deck.

Martin was waiting patiently when she returned, offering her a warm smile of welcome, as if he had missed her in the few minutes that she had been gone, while he reached out his hand to take the glasses from her.

“No – she didn’t really go for the drinks idea. Water it is.” Deborah declared, pouring the water into the glasses that he held steadily as she slipped back into her seat, settling back once everything was put to the side and balanced accordingly.

She watched in silence as Martin sipped, as his expression turned thoughtful and his fingers played around the edge of his glass, wiping down the condensation from his breath.

“So…” Martin began, not even lifting his eyes to address her properly, a sharp U-turn from their new camaraderie that set Deborah’s hackles on guard, “what is it exactly that’s so special about … I don’t even know his name.”

Deborah stiffened, and gripped her glass more firmly, wishing that the cold could gather up the hardness that had flushed away the previous warmth in her chest; she didn’t want to talk about Harry, didn’t even want to think about him.

They had been doing so well, existing if only for the day in their own little world; it had been nice. Deborah didn’t know why she didn’t want to talk, he was her husband after all…but perhaps that was it. Home was one world, work was another…home Deborah could be kept nice and far away from work Deborah.

“Harry.” She answered shortly, taking the chance to look away from Martin, just as she saw from the corner of her eye that he lifted his head to look at her, a strange expression on his face.

“Hmm.” He made a noncommittal noise under his breath.

Deborah suddenly felt the need to defend herself, to explain to Martin exactly what it was about Harry…it shouldn’t be difficult, she was seeing him tonight. They would be putting things to rights.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Deborah started; she realised as she said it that ‘I don’t know’ was hardly the best way to begin, so compensated with an extra pleasant tone, “I mean, he’s clever and funny and kind and handsome and so on and et cetera – you know, the standard specs. But, I think if I’m honest, what it really comes down to is, he thinks I’m terrific.”

He loved her; whatever else might be going on, however far away from each other they might be…he did love her. They had that.

“ _Does_ he?” Martin replied, sounding unimpressed; she glanced sideways to see that he was observing her with something akin to sad curiosity, or cautious concern.

Deborah couldn’t blame him; she barely convinced herself, and it was _her_ damn husband.

“Yup. The bee’s pyjamas; the cat’s knees. Really…terrific.” She attempted confident, but trailed off towards the end. It was true, it was…it just took some looking to find it.

“And that’s enough to make you happy together, is it – your shared belief in the terrificness of you?” Martin asked, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head; Deborah watched, knowing that she was frowning ,that her usual content smirk was vacant, but she hadn’t the energy to fight, “I mean, I’m sure he’s great, but shouldn’t there be, along with all the great things that he _is_ …shouldn’t there be something about how he makes _you feel_ , or how you feel about _him_?”

Deborah swallowed heavily, unable to answer straight away. He was making her think, making her think despite all her efforts to the contrary.

She and Harry were fine, she kept telling herself that, because it was true. Deborah’s fingers scratched against the edge of the bottom of her seat as she let one hand fall out of sight. They were just going through a rough patch, but they’d fix it.

But in answer to Martin’s question? Only an unpleasant churning in her chest that sent unnatural creepings up her arms and made her want to clench up.

Harry was smart, he was funny, he was handsome; that hadn’t changed. His wit didn’t impress her anymore, she didn’t find his jokes funny, and there was nothing about him that made her want to stare at him all day, or jump into bed with him.

But he was her _husband_. He loved her…she had watched one marriage break up without her able to do anything, lost the father of her child and the child along with him…Harry loved her, and she didn’t want to lose her husband. She wanted him there to come home to and grow old with even though some days, like today, she was glad that she’d spent it with Martin rather than at home.

She’d enjoyed her day with Martin…she wouldn’t have enjoyed the day at home with a snuffling Harry. She’d have ended up in their room on her computer, or reading a book.

It didn’t matter though. Harry loved her, and _she_ loved _him_. She did. Martin didn’t understand…it wasn’t about feeling special, or passionate…that ended towards the beginning.

 _God_ , she just wanted to be happily married.

But she couldn’t say that.

“The terrificness of me’s not a bad start.” Deborah remarked, finally meeting Martin’s gaze with a stiff, false smirk. Martin’s smile faltered, and the concern was back full force, as his hands dropped, one to tap nervously against the seat.

“But does it make you happy?” Martin asked again; Deborah didn’t look away from his blue eyes, taking account of just how blue they really were instead of ruminating too much on the subject at hand, “Truly happy?”

“Oh, well, come on.” Deborah insisted, shrugging and shaking her head as if it were no matter at all, “No-one’s truly happy.”

oOoOoOo

As Harry wandered back indoors, towards the sofa before which lay the remnants of their attempt at a romantic night, Deborah closed the door, remaining by its side, wishing so much that Martin would come back.

She didn’t want him there, of course, but she would have given anything in that moment to return to the fun that they had been having, with Martin adorably drunk and shouting botched titles at her. Anything to save her from her marriage in that moment.

Everything had gone to plan. She had switched her jackets before entering the house, becoming a false Captain in under a minute, the dinner had gone well (she had forgotten the sauce, but that didn’t seem to matter)…Harry was very much enamoured with her, and there was no doubt that he would eagerly sweep her off of her feet and into bed should she give him a nod.

Then Martin had turned up with the sauce, and Deborah didn’t want to do that anymore. That bloody, bloody sod.

As if his interrogation earlier hadn’t done enough to shake her belief in her own marriage…this…

Martin had come all the way here to drop off a gift that wouldn’t affect him in the least. He had gone out of his way to be so _kind_ , and then he hadn’t said a word to Harry about who was really Captain. Sure, he had pushed his limits, but it was them, and Deborah wouldn’t have expected any less.

Martin had done that…and they were barely friends…

Harry was her husband, and he wasn’t even willing to listen to her when she told him about her day, about having to put Arthur in the ‘First Officer’s seat’ to trick Mr Goddard…he looked like he was listening, but she _knew_ he was more interested in what she had planned…he never listened.

He loved her…she wouldn’t let go of that; he _did_ love her…but she wasn’t sure if he cared.

Martin cared enough to make an effort, to be there for her when he didn’t need to…and _he_ barely cared at all.

Harry couldn’t manage even that some days…he was always out living his own life and going to tai chi lessons or the pub with his friends.

“Are you coming back, Love?” Harry called; Deborah turned around, putting a big smile on her lips, though she knew it wasn’t working, to see Harry peering over the back of the sofa, one arm beckoning her over.

No…no…he loved her. They would be okay…she needed to tell him the truth, maybe that was it?

Maybe it was just that they didn’t know what was going on in the other’s life. She needed to be honest, Martin’s presence had told her that much.

But not tonight…

Tonight…she wasn’t going to seduce him as she had planned…no…she would try to curl up on the sofa with him, they hadn’t done that in a while.

They would talk later…now, Deborah just wanted to try and be happy with her husband, just for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please do let me know if you have any comments or suggestions, as it always helps when writing the next chapter


	8. Interlude 2

She couldn’t cope any longer. Now that it was in the open, now that Martin knew and it was wafting around her mind like an irremovable odour, Deborah couldn’t cope with the incessant nagging that clawed at her throat.

Of course, the fact that she wasn’t Captain may have sounded like a ridiculous thing to get worked up about, and in truth it was. Except it wasn’t her _rank_ that worried her. It was the fact that once the words met the air, it would be out in the open that she had lied.

She had hidden something huge from her husband, and although it wasn’t significant, it was solid evidence that she had been keeping part of _herself_ back from him.

All Deborah could do was hope that he realised that her honesty was a gateway to fixing their relationship.

 _Damn Martin_ …Deborah could barely find the energy to be mad at the Captain for making the realisation that her marriage was crumbling seep to the surface of her skin and stay there like a tattoo that only she could see.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, inhaling slowly as she pushed the covers from her legs. Deborah had retreated to their bed an hour ago, leaving Harry in front of the television watching one of his awfully sparkly shows. It wasn’t too late, so she had feigned boredom and disappeared.

They had had a lazy day in, spending the day together while going about their own chores. Harry had gone out briefly to have coffee with one of his friends from work, and Deborah had engaged in the longest conversation that she had had with her daughter in months.

Apparently she had loved her small part in her class’s production ‘very, very much’, and couldn’t wait to come and spend some of half-term with her Mummy. Just her Mummy; Verity hadn’t warmed to Harry in quite the same way that she had her step-mother. That was to be expected of course; he hadn’t been around long, and V _erity_ wasn’t around often.

Now Deborah sat in bed, working up the courage to go and talk to Harry. It shouldn’t have been so hard, not really. Harry _knew_ her, for all that Deborah held back. But proper honesty, that was something that she wasn’t good at.

No, Harry knew her because suavity so often faltered into muted acceptance, rather than the decision to engage in raw conversation, or relax without trying to impress him.

The only people she didn’t try to impress by overacting were her colleagues, and that was only because they were impressed enough by her genuine skills.

Harry didn’t need genuine skills, he wanted a perfect wife, which Deborah could provide. She could…it just took a little equivocation.

But he loved her, so he wouldn’t care when she told him the truth.

With a long held sigh, Deborah pressed the back of her hand to her shuttered eyelids and relished some last moments of peace. Then she took the hand from her eyes and took in the bedroom, before squaring her shoulders and kicking her legs over the side of the bed.

When she entered the sitting room, the nerves remained, but she merely intertwined her hands where the hung at her front, and tread lightly to the sofa, to lower herself down beside Harry. The lights had been dimmed to a warm orange glow, and the television had been replaced by the book in his hand, which he lowered when he felt the cushions dip.

“You alright, Debbie?” Harry inquired, shifting his feet aside so that she could better fit beside him; she tried not to fiddle with her hair as his eyes mapped her face, “You look a bit… _peaky_.”

Deborah nodded quickly, her lips thinning in a semblance of a smile.

“Yes, yes of course I am.” She replied, and then thinking better of it; that was no good, “Actually Harry…I need to talk to you about something.”

Harry straightened up immediately, hoisting himself so that his head was at the same height as hers.

“What is it?” he demanded, seeming more worried than anything else, “Are you alright?”

Deborah nodded quickly, smiling again in an effort to comfort him; she even reached across to place a placatory hand on his knee, only retracting it when he calmed and the tension left his muscles, his arm resting over the back of the sofa as he leaned in.

“Everything’s fine, nothing’s wrong.” Deborah assured him, keeping her voice soft and low, maintaining eye contact lest she lose her nerve, “I just…realised that there is a slight _misunderstanding_ between us that should be…rectified.”

“I don’t understand, what _kind_ of misunderstanding?” Harry’s expression was withheld, cautious, and he didn’t reach for her hand as he was wont to try and do.

Deborah decided that the best thing to do, now that she had him sat down and listening, was to just jump right in and say what she had to. That was the plan at least. In reality, she inhaled sharply to speak, exhaling dejectedly each time without even opening her mouth, eyes widening in frustration.

On the third try, at the sight of Harry’s eyebrows furrowing, she managed to spit the words out with an airy lilt.

“I’m not the Captain at MJN.” Deborah stated; when she saw Harry’s eyes narrow in confusion, she hurried to add, “I didn’t lie, I just didn’t correct you when you assumed that I was. I just felt that you should know that…for the sake of openness.”

Harry nodded slowly, hands coming to rest on his own lap. Deborah turned her head away to glance at the coffee table, the nervousness making itself heard once again. With nothing else to do, she shifted so that she was perched more towards the edge of the sofa, legs together as if ready to carry her elsewhere.

“So if you’re not the Captain, then who is?” Harry asked, and Deborah had to stop herself from noting that he had missed the point of her confession entirely; she watched as Harry’s eyes widened and his bewilderment turned to disdain, as he gestured unabashedly at their front door, “You don’t mean to tell me that Martin, _that_ Martin from the other night, is your Captain – the same Martin that you keep going on about?”

“Well he’s not doing _that_ bad of a job.”  Deborah retorted indignantly, unsure why she felt the need to defend Martin at such a time; it just wasn’t fair was all. He didn’t deserve to be insulted behind his back, let alone by a man that had never properly interacted with him.

“Fine- fine…” Harry agreed, raising a hand in surrender.

Deborah slipped her arms around her chest, let them hang loosely, as Harry turned to place his feet on the floor, tipping forward to place his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, rubbing them over his face and groaning with exhaustion. She wished that she could tell what he was thinking, but she really couldn’t.

Harry raised his head, and without saying a word, he ran his eyes down her body, across her face, as if searching for something unknown; his expression was unreadable, and Deborah hated the way it made her stomach churn.

“Are you angry?” she asked tentatively, prepared to take the blow if he said that he was; it wouldn’t be the first relationship she had watched crumble in on itself.

Harry’s eyes softened, and he shook his head.

“No, of course I’m not angry; this isn’t anything to get angry about. I’m glad you told me.” He assured her, and he reached across to take her hand in his, squeezing gently; Deborah felt a flicker of hope, “But…” the flicker was doused as quickly as it had emerged, “this…you keeping this from me…it’s made me realise. Debbie, love…now that I’ve heard your secret, I should tell you mine.”

Deborah tore her hand away, tucking it into her elbow as her arms wrapped tighter around her chest; she stiffened, trying her best to measure her expression and tone, though if the trembling of her lip was real, she wasn’t succeeding.

“What secret?” she demanded coldly, praying for anything better than lying about his job title; there was so much worse that he could pick from, “Harry, what have you done?”

Harry swallowed, and then seemed to steady himself, accepting the distance that his wife put between them.

“Debbie, I’m _sorry_ , I really am…but I’ve been seeing my Tai Chi teacher.” He explained calmly; on seeing on response, save for a sinking expression and a paling of Deborah’s cheeks as her eyes flittered over his face for any sign of jest, he pushed on, “I’ve been having an affair…I’m _sorry_.”

 _Oh, he’s sorry_ , Deborah thought viciously, _everyone’s sorry when they’re called out. Martin’s sorry, Harry’s sorry. Except Harry doesn’t mean it._

“Why?” Deborah gritted out; she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t even sure what he had just said had actually sunk it. All she knew was that she was shaking, ever so slightly, while her arms kept her contained.

Harry shook his head as if dispelling a fly, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips; just like it did when he was lying. _She_ paid attention, even if he didn’t.

“Deborah, I love you, I really, really, love you.” Harry insisted, leaning forward, hands clasped to implore her; he stilled when she leaned away from him, “It’s just…there’s supposed to be that one person, the one that, even though they’re not perfect, makes you feel like you want to be there with them forever, no matter what you’re doing…” Deborah shook her head imperceptibly, a broiling, burning fury rising up over the stabbing pain in her guts with each word he said, “…and…as much as I love you, I don’t feel like you’re _the one_. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Deborah scoffed, and threw herself to her feet, rounding the sofa so that she could stand at the arm, a physical barrier between her and her _husband_.

“ _No_ – no…if that were the case – if you felt that we weren’t right, you would have _said_ something, you wouldn’t be sneaking around getting a good time elsewhere and then coming home to your _wife_ to deal with the rest of you.” Deborah snarled, her voice wavering as her hand shook where it gestured furiously in the air, “No, there’s something else – why _now_? Why when I’m actually _honest_ with you?”

“That’s just it, Debbie!” Harry blurted, leaping to his feet, throwing his hands in the air, face scrunched, “You said you were Captain and you aren’t. You were honest, and you know what? The truth just lets you down.”

Deborah took a step back, arms clinging to the other elbow again as she shook her head; she didn’t know whether she was angry and sad, in pain or about to rip his throat out.

“ _Let’s me down?”_ Deborah repeated, gaping in offence as Harry nodded, a twisted smirk on his lips that told of just how long he had been bottling this all up.

“Exactly! You build up all these expectations, and then you can’t meet them!” Harry yelled, hands outstretched to encompass her as a whole, pointing out her flaws, “You act like you’re this suave and mysterious jet-setter who’s perfect at everything and pulls of so many _clever schemes_ – and when we got married, you _were_ , you were funny and exciting and gorgeous-” he reeled off every complaint, and Deborah held herself stoicly, staring at him as if in a new light, “But _now_ – all that mysteriousness is just to cover up that you’re a bit silly, your ‘clever schemes’ get you sacked and in trouble more often than not, and you’re barely ever _here-_ ”

“I’m _working_!” Deborah insisted, letting her anger take over; it was far better than the icy pit that seemed to be collapsing in on itself in her chest, making the rest of her want to follow its course, “I’m _working_ , day and night, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a job at all!”

Harry scoffed and shook his head, running an agitated hand through his hair, but Deborah wasn’t finished. She hadn’t know quite how much she had to throw at him.

“And I might as well enjoy being at work,” she drawled viciously, smirking bitterly as she caught his attention, “It’s the only fun I get considering how when I _am_ at home, you’re off with your work mates – or were you really _shagging_ your bit on the side?”

“Well what do you expect?” Harry shot back cruelly, “You don’t let me know you anymore. All I ever hear is ‘ _on this flight’_ , ‘ _that bloody woman’_ , _‘Martin this, Martin that’,_ always going on about _sodding_ Martin!” he mocked; Deborah wasn’t sure what to say, “Hell, I’ve barely met the man, but I can tell you that his favourite colour’s blue, and he’s very good at maths – that’s how much you _go on_ about him, _all the time_.”

“I spend twelve hours a day sometimes locked in a small metal room with the man.” Deborah exclaimed, throwing her hands to the side in a despairing surrender, “What else should I talk to you about? Should I check to see if you’ve been getting as much _sex_ as you need, or is that not _considerate_ enough?”

“Deborah we’re not working!” Harry bellowed; his chest was heaving in the silence that followed.

Deborah let her arms drop, and her lips wobbled as she tried to form words. She could barely form the thoughts that might have fixed the situation. Because there it was…the one thing that she had been trying to avoid.

And now…and now?

She just wanted him to go away. All her efforts to try and keep him, and now she just wanted to curl up in bed and know that he wasn’t anywhere near her.

It _hurt_. She had been betrayed and abandoned before, but she had been so sure that this time, _this time_ , she would be able to settle down.

But in that moment she could barely stand to look at the man she had settled down with. Harry just looked lost now, his eyes tracing the carpet as his hands swung lamely at his sides.

The ‘right one’; he may have been lying when he had mentioned that perfect person, but Deborah would have given the world for that one person. They didn’t exist; he wasn’t Harry, and he wasn’t real, because there was no one in the world that could make her happy, make her feel loved, make her love him, and make her want to be around him forever.

She had hoped that settling would be enough, but apparently nothing was as good as she was going to get.

“Out.” Deborah said quietly, but in their sitting room, in that moment, it might have been a scream.

“What?” Harry had the audacity to look confused, but he didn’t move to approach her.

Deborah shook her head, running her head over her eyes. She wasn’t cruel.

“I want you out tomorrow…I can’t have you here, I can’t.” She explained sourly, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes, “You can sleep on the sofa tonight, and when I go to work, I want you to get your things, take whatever you want, and then leave me alone.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted as he watched her wave her hand carelessly about the room; she noted detachedly that even now, their possessions sat separately on their shelves.

“Don’t you want to try and work things out?” he asked hopelessly; or at least, Deborah thought that he sounded hopeless. She didn’t want him to want her anymore, that would just make things difficult.

With great effort, keeping her expression as cool as she could while tears threatened to well up in her eyes and her cheeks were heated, her lips wavering, she lifted her gaze to meet his, fingers digging into her own arms.

“I want to stop being unhappy.” Deborah told him firmly.

Harry waited for a moment, and then it was as if the realisation that it was all over, just like that, flooded his eyes, and he looked so sad; then he nodded, looking anywhere but at his wife.

“Okay…” he almost whispered.

Deborah saw him lower himself back onto the sofa, slowly, but she was already striding from the room. She slammed her bedroom door behind her and hurled herself onto the bed, pulling the duvet to her chest and gripping it tightly until her knuckles ached, hiding her face in the suffocating warmth.

She didn’t know when she stopped shaking.

oOoOoOo

The next day, Harry kept out of her way, allowing her free use of the kitchen without his presence until she stepped through the front door and into the outside world; it was like stepping through a void where the crisp air negated the choking vacuum within.

The entire drive to the airfield Deborah kept running through her mind the fact that when she returned home, there would be no husband waiting for her, no Harry to go to sleep beside, no other person to work around…

It hurt. The ache in her chest, that leeched into her pores and made her want to crack every joint to try and realign herself, didn’t let up, remaining an ebbing throb.

But at the same time, it felt like there was a weight off her shoulders. True, it may have been the weight of the last of her hope in the world, but it was a weight nonetheless. It was as if the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to keep track of what someone else was doing all the time was freeing…at the same time, she didn’t want it to start.

But work was a different world, with a different her, and she could package away her home life for a while.

She arrived far earlier than she had since her first day at MJN, so Deborah sat in her car, taking deep breath after deep breath. Martin was here; she could just about see him pacing through the porta-cabin window.

Making her decision, Deborah exited her car and strode into the porta-cabin, pleasant smile in place as always. Though Martin looked up and greeted her warmly, pausing as if to follow her to the desk that she wasn’t going to sit behind yet, and Arthur tried to corral her into looking at whatever it was he had discovered, Deborah only nodded politely in their direction and headed straight to Carolyn’s office, shutting the door behind her and leaving their disappointed faces.

At the unwelcomed entrance, Carolyn set her stationary down on her desk, movements stilling, and glared in surprise at Deborah, who was leaning with her back against the door, as if it could hold out the world.

“Deborah? I assumed it was too early for your species to rise.” Carolyn remarked coolly, taking in her pilot’s unusually smart appearance; Deborah had decided to take extra care in putting on her uniform, just to rub it in Harry’s face if he saw her, “May I inquire as to _why_ you’ve dropped in uninvited?”

“I need to talk to you, Carolyn.” Deborah sighed, dropping her head into her hand; she was so tired, so mentally exhausted, she didn’t know which way was up anymore, “Please…”

Carolyn must have picked up on her dire mood, as her surprise didn’t lessen, but her expression softened, and she beckoned with a hand to the solitary spare seat; that didn’t soften her words, as if anything ever could.

“Oh, sit down you useless employee.” Carolyn scolded lightly; Deborah smirked faintly, and followed her instructions, lowering herself miserably into the seat, “Now, explain to me what’s going on before I assume that you’ve been traded for a badly reconstructed fake-Deborah.”

Deborah wet her lips and sighed before replying, rolling her eyes. She was reminded oddly of being a child, sitting in the headmistress’s office, twiddling her hands to provide a distraction from her face.

“You know how when I cost us a lot of money, you make up for it by taking a chunk out of my pay-check?” she remarked; Carolyn nodded and hummed in understanding, so Deborah continued, knowing too well how her suggestion was going to be received, “I need you to not do that anymore.”

“What? Why not?” Carolyn squawked, looking affronted at the very idea, “We agreed that those were good terms considering the agony you put my company through.”

“I know we did, but my circumstances have changed, literally overnight.” Deborah argued, blinking imploringly at her employer; she thought that Carolyn might have understood, or accepted her miserable demeanour with a rush of sympathy, but it seemed that that was not the case, “Carolyn…Harry’s gone, I can’t rely on his wages to cover the bills anymore.”

It seemed that that was the ticket; Carolyn’s eyes managed to soften while narrowing, and her confusion lacked its usual sharkish anger.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” she demanded; and she was always the one to insist that she couldn’t care less about her employees’ lives, “Where did he go?”

“He had an affair, so I sent him away.” Deborah stated shortly; the last thing she needed was to go over it again when she had barely placed the idea in her own mind.

She was somewhat shocked to find that when she stopped inspecting her fingernails, Carolyn was eyeing her with something akin to pity…or it might even have been sympathy. Both seemed unnatural on her face.

“I understand.” Carolyn replied, sounding unusually without sharpness, “I suppose I can’t cut your wages if it would risk leaving you homeless.”

Deborah merely nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. She hadn’t been entirely sure, or even slightly confident, that just asking would work.

So she rose to her feet, and headed towards the door. Carolyn was obviously finished with her anyway. Just as her hand curled around the handle, Deborah turned back to the room, adopting a more cavalier grace.

“And Carolyn…” she caught the older woman’s attention, “Please don’t tell Martin or Arthur…I have a reputation to uphold.”

“You want to pretend you’re still with you husband?” Carolyn remarked, raising her eyebrow, pen in hand; Deborah knew that she could see right through her, so shrugged half-heartedly.

“At least until _I_ can get my head around it.” She answered truthfully.

Carolyn nodded, and Deborah took that as her cue to leave.


	9. Interlude 3

**Interlude 3**

The nurse was taking a ridiculously long amount of time to get back to the small examination room and dismiss her. Deborah was aware that there were probably at least twelve other patients on her rounds, but she also couldn’t help gritting her teeth and picking at the sides of her nails in boredom.

She knew that she was fine, she even had her coat on over her uniform jacket, ready to walk out the doors and go to work. Permission to leave was just a formality, but a necessary formality nonetheless.

The room itself held nothing to admire, merely the white walls and slick clean equipment of every NHS hospital across the country; it was with a sense of self-contentment, an unusual feeling overall, that Deborah mused on her decision not to pursue a medical career all those years ago. She wouldn’t have survived this monotony every day, even though she was sure many people _did_ , and were perfectly happy staying in one place.

With a sigh, Deborah pulled her phone from her pocket, bowing to the inevitable. Getting checked over for internal injuries had been a nice distraction from all of the practical problems that she now had to deal with; but alas, the real world came a-knocking.

Hopefully the nurse would take long enough with her others wards that she wouldn’t walk in on the tail end of an awkward phone-call; especially as she was supposed to have turned her phone off when she entered the building.

As Deborah tapped the buttons on the phone’s screen, pulling up her contacts list and finding the correct name, it occurred to her that this would be the second time since their separation that she had spoken to Harry.

He had called once, a few hours after he had moved out for good, to tell her that he had arrived safely (as she had requested – she wasn’t going to be cruel, they _had_ been married for a few years), and to check once again that she was sure.

Harry was living on his own now as well. He said that he wasn’t seeing his Tai Chi teacher anymore, out of respect for the fact that their affair cost him his marriage. Deborah knew him well enough to know that his resolve might last all of a month before he changed his mind; but the thought was nice.

It was all very amiable.

Then nothing; just getting up and performing her routines just as she had before. Martin and Arthur didn’t know anything, and Deborah supposed that that made things easier, as she didn’t have to try and talk to them about it; it was actually refreshing to be able to just exist with them without worrying about whether _they_ were worrying about _her._

Carolyn was just the same as always.

Pressing her phone to her ear, concentrating on the plastic chill rather than the wormlike squirming in her throat, Deborah listened to the dull dial tone, ringing once, then twice, then a third. She was about to cut off the call and try later, when a metallic click poured from the speakers, followed by the sound of a throat clearing.

“ _Debbie_?” Harry sounded bewildered, but concerned all the same; Deborah wasn’t surprised. She had never called him during the day when they were married. In fact, the fact that he had picked up when he was probably at work was somewhat touching.

“Harry.” Deborah greeted him shortly; even alone, she dropped her eyes to her knees to allay the discomfort that she was feeling; it didn’t matter how touching his sentiments were, the longing for his affection had dissipated shockingly quickly, it was a wonder that they had lasted as long as they did, “I know I said I didn’t want to speak to you-”

“ _No, no, that’s okay.”_ Harry assured her; she could hear him shifting the phone as if he were pinning it between his shoulder and his ear, “ _Are…are you alright?”_

“Yes, I’m fine.” Deborah answered drearily; she pressed her palm over her closed eyes, “I’m just calling to ask whose name is on the car insurance and the last MOT.”

There was a pause, and Deborah pulled the phone away from her ear for a fraction of a second to settle it more comfortably; if she came across as bitter, which she was aware she probably did, it was only because she was inwardly cursing herself for not considering this sort of formality when she had made Harry leave.

“ _I paid the last instalments, but I did it under your name, you should be fine.”_ Harry replied distractedly; Deborah could just imagine him scrunching his nose up, and she rolled her eyes as he continued, “ _Never mind that – what have you done to the car?”_

“ _I_ haven’t done anything to the car; some new driver barrelled into the side of me on my way to work.” Deborah explained, although she didn’t feel as if she should be, “The car’s fully functional, it’s just a bit dented…all the way down the passenger side.”

“ _What? Where are you now?”_ Harry demanded, choking out his response; Deborah was sure he must have been sipping coffee given the splutter on the other side of the line.

“I’m in A and E.” she remarked, sparing the room another disinterested glance; it was incredible how being attached to a road accident could allow you to avoid all of the bureaucracy that led to four hours in the emergency room for things as small as broken fingers.

 _“Do you need someone to take you home?”_ Harry asked, and Deborah could hear him sigh through the speakers; if she had needed one reminder of why they fell apart, that would have done nicely.

“No, Harry; as I said, the car is fully functional and I am perfectly capable of driving it to the airfield.” Deborah answered in a clipped tone, making sure that Harry would hear her disdain, sending as many disappointed thoughts as she could through the invisible phone line.

 _“Good – I can’t really take time off work at the moment.”_ Harry noted.

“Oh, you are _charming_ ; wasn’t I _lucky_.” Deborah drawled fighting the temptation to slam the phone down; mobile it may have been, but she had never been able to forget the joy of slamming down a handset mid-argument.

 _“Was that all you needed?”_ Harry inquired, carefully avoiding reacting; Deborah couldn’t deny that she appreciated the gesture, and sighed as the prickle of agitation lapsed.

“Yes, that was it.” Deborah acknowledged; there was nothing else to say, no desire to know how he had been getting on without her, no need to converse with him at all, “Goodbye then.”

“ _Goodbye.”_ Harry replied; she thought that he sounded reluctant, but then the minute rustle of his end of the line was replaced by the droning chime of a disconnected call.

Deborah swung her arm down to press the disconnect button particularly violently, and was rewarded with a splinter of pain across her chest and her left wrist; she may have been fine, but the nurse had been decidedly firm when pointing out that lurching forward into the steering wheel had bruised her ribs and wrist enough that she should ‘take it easy’.

The simple whirring that permeated the otherwise silent room wasn’t enough to keep Deborah from almost overthinking the conversation she had just had. She turned the phone over in her hands, and then peered toward the door. It seemed as if the nurse might be a while, so it couldn’t hurt to slip in one more call.

Once again she pressed the phone against her ear and listened to the dial tone, wincing in inward anticipation of the onslaught that she would inevitably fall victim to. The click resounded in her ear, and though she tried to speak first, she wasn’t quick enough.

“ _Deborah, you are two hours late – this is pushing it, even for you. If I didn’t know you, I might have been worried that you’d walked under a bus, or fallen in a canal, but_ no _, you couldn’t call me if you had.”_ Carolyn’s concerned irritation made the corners of Deborah’s lips curl up, and she exhaled tiredly as she allowed the older woman to continue and wear herself down, “ _You’d better have a good excuse.”_

“I shall not disappoint, Carolyn.” Deborah drawled warmly, fingering the papery cover that overlaid the cheap hospital check-up bed, “I was in a car accident.”

“ _A car accident?!”_ Carolyn squawked; there was a sound on the other end of the line, a low yet reedy booming that made the reception crackle.

Deborah listened, eyebrows knitted, as it sounded as if Carolyn placed her phone on the desk, and spoke from a great distance; she could just about decipher the individual words.

 _“Martin - - down and - - quiet.”_ There was a rustling and crackling, and then Carolyn’s voice was clearer, making Deborah recoil ever so slightly, adjusting where she was holding the phone, realising that she had been pressing it particularly hard into her ear, “ _Deborah, what do you_ mean _you’ve been in a car accident? Are you alright?”_

“I assure you, I am absolutely fine.” Deborah rolled her eyes, struggling not to smile; she glanced quickly at the door when she heard footsteps in the corridor, but to her relief, no one entered, “I was just calling to say that I’ll be in work soon, so long as I’m ever actually released.”

Carolyn could be heard humming to herself down the phone, and then she continued thoughtfully, having cleared her throat.

 _“Do you need picking up from the hospital?”_ Carolyn inquired, “ _It’s just that Martin looks as if he’s about to sprint to your beside in eight long leaps.”_

“ _No I’m not!”_

That time Deborah could understand the deeper echo mixed in with the crackling background of MJN’s porta-cabin, and realised that the previous bustle must have been Martin’s spluttering reaction to Carolyn’s exclamation.

She traced her fingers over the buttons of her coat, pointedly ignoring the shimmer of warmth that fluttered in her chest.

“No, just give me an hour or so and I’ll be there.” Deborah replied, and then as an after -thought, “Tell Martin his daring rescue is unwarranted…but greatly appreciated.”

“ _Will do.”_ Carolyn chirped, _“I expect you within the hour.”_

“Okay, bye.” Deborah dropped the call, and clicked the button on the top of her phone, just as the sound of the nurse’s clipping heels sounded down the corridor. She slipped the mobile into her pocket as the woman entered the room, and greeted her with an unforced smile.

“Sorry for the wait,” the nurse sighed apologetically, “I hope you haven’t missed out on too much.”

Deborah put on her most charming smile and slipped to her feet, digging her hands into her pockets, before drawling.

“Not at all.”

oOoOoOo

Deborah winced, hissing a breath through her teeth as she examined the dented metal, and scratched paint along the side of her otherwise beautiful purple Lexus. She hadn’t looked too hard when leaving the hospital, eager to get to work within the hour slot she had been allowed, but now…it was unavoidable.

She reached down to run her fingers along the jagged folds, and wrinkled her nose when paint came away like flakes of dry paste, sticking to her skin.

The insurance may cover it, but she was going to have to live with a scarred vehicle until she was able to get it fixed; it didn’t matter, Deborah thought in a burst of sentimentality, she would love her car anyway. The ache of her ribs would eclipse the superficial pain caused by the heartless damage caused.

Reluctantly, Deborah forced herself away from mourning the temporary disfigurement of her most expensive possession, and wandered over to the porta-cabin, preparing herself for the paperwork that Carolyn was sure to foist on her to make up for the lost time.

As she pushed open the door, having to nudge it with her knee to compensate for the damage that they still hadn’t repaired, Deborah kept her eyes down, which turned out to be a mistake.

Before she had even taken two steps, Deborah was nearly knocked backwards by the force of someone twice her size barrelling into her and keeping her from hitting the ground only by sweeping her into a suffocating embrace that left the tips of her toes tracing the floor.

Groaning and huffing against the pain in her chest, exacerbated by the force of the hug, Deborah struggled to extract her arms long enough to give Arthur a quick squeeze around the shoulders, although she was certain that it merely intensified the image of her hanging helplessly.

“Deborah!” Arthur exclaimed, hugging her even tighter before finally releasing her, gracious enough to lower her to her feet rather than plopping her down; he was grinning ear to ear, “See, I _told_ them you’d be alright, and they didn’t believe me.”

Deborah couldn’t stop a small smile from gracing her lips, even as she splayed her palm over her lower chest; true, she was in more pain than she had been for about an hour and a half, but there was something worthwhile and pleasant about having someone so pleased to see her.

“Is that so?” she retorted, patting Arthur playfully on the elbow, but keeping far enough away that she wasn’t at risk of being swept up again, “Your faith in me is astounding.”

“Well not really, because you _are_ fine.” Arthur remarked; then he glanced over his shoulder, and Deborah’s eyes were drawn towards her own desk, where she only then noticed that Martin was standing, free of his jacket, shirtsleeves pushed to the elbows, watching the two of them tentatively; Arthur must have seen her looking, as he suggested quickly, “I’ll just let Mum know you’re here.”

With that Arthur stumbled backwards, and then strode hastily into Carolyn’s office, letting the door fall shut with a definitive thud.

Deborah stared into the space that he left behind, and then unwillingly, though she didn’t know why that was, she let her eyes slide to Martin’s, and smiled awkwardly, slipping her arms loosely around her chest.

Martin’s lips flickered into a cautious smile, and his cheeks flushed red as he brought his hands together in front of him; if Deborah didn’t know any better, from the creases in his uniform, she would have said that he had been pacing.

“So…nice quiet morning without me then?” Deborah inquired, stepping closer to him, so that she was standing beside him in front of her desk; in truth, she intended to look over her desk for stray work, but was having a hard time finding the inclination while Martin’s eyes still bored into her, as if analysing every inch of her face, “Anyone would think you were worried.”

Martin shook his head sharply, and brought a quivering hand to his lips, fingers curling, before dragging his bottom lip through his teeth and replying determinedly.

“When Carolyn said car accident, there was a horrible moment – just, just a moment, when I thought…” Martin let out a shaky scoff, and Deborah let the tension drop from her shoulders as she watched him with muted confusion, “I thought that you might be dead – it was just a moment, but…i-it was _horrible_ – so don’t get _smart_ with-”

“Oh, _Martin_ …” Deborah sighed, a warm, sympathetic glow surging from her stomach to her chest; she tilted her head ever so slightly as he blushed again, and dropped her gaze, looking anxiously to his fingers, scowling as if cursing himself for his stupidity.

Before she knew what she was doing, Deborah unravelled her arms and held them imperceptibly open, extended towards Martin; he must have seen the movement from the corner of his eyes, and within seconds, he surged forwards, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her.

Unlike Arthur who had simply hurled himself at her, Martin slipped his arms into a position around her back, embracing in such a way that though she was pinned to his chest, her ribs didn’t sting. As she wrapped her own arms around his shoulders, allowing him to shift her into a more comfortable position, Deborah was aware of how one of Martin’s hands grasped at the material at her mid-back, and the other clasped in her hair, almost stroking down to her neck as his cheek pressed against the side of her head, and the only place she could place her own head was to tuck it into the crevice between his shoulder and neck. Though the breath on her neck was no true indication, she suspected that he might have been trying to inhale as much of her as he could.

Deborah couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her so desperately.

She couldn’t move, but it was so comforting to have Martin _right there_ , a warm presence, holding her together. She could just about hear his pulse in his neck, as he swallowed shakily, and continued to stroke his fingers slowly through her hair. She couldn’t quite tell, but she thought Martin might even have been rocking imperceptibly from side to side.

And she didn’t want to move, not at all. She had been calm all the way from the main road to the hospital, all the way to the airfield. The accident had been scary, she had been caught unawares, and her heart had been throbbing so hard that her hands had been shaking.

It felt like a cloak of weighted chainmail was being lifted from her shoulders… _god_ , it was just so nice to have someone give so much of a damn. It just so happened that the last person she’d thought that would be was the one clinging to her as if she might evaporate.

Martin pulled back, and Deborah was excruciatingly aware of the sensation of the thin layer of his shirt rubbing along her open jacket, as she too leant back. He didn’t break the embrace though, keeping his hands in place, one on her shoulder, the other somewhere about her waist, as hers slipped down to rest over the peak of his shoulders.

Deborah found that she couldn’t tear her eyes from his, as Martin gazed shakily into hers, his blue eyes almost watery, matching his trembling lips. She gave his shoulders a squeeze, and he chuckled raggedly, shaking his head to dispel his embarrassment.

“Are you absolutely sure that you’re okay…because if you’re not-” Martin began, his fingers flexing where he held her.

“Martin, I’m alright, there’s nothing to worry about.” Deborah assured him, her voice no louder than it needed to be for the two of them to hear it; with little explanation as to why, she gave in to the sensation in her gut that felt like a magnet being tugged irrevocably in one direction, “Would you like another hug?”

She made it sound like a joke, like a playful jest only on offer because Martin was still blushing madly and his eyes were alight with worry. In reality, Deborah just wanted to close her eyes and let him hold her again. She swallowed down the voice in the back of her head that mocked how starved for affection she was feeling in that moment – it was _Martin_ , for god’s sake.

Martin chuckled shakily again, nodding tiny little nods that barely qualified.

“Yeah…”

Deborah allowed herself to be pulled eagerly to him again (although she may have helped), and closed her eyes as she pressed her forehead against Martin’s cheek, allowing him to hold and rock back and forth ever so slightly, relishing the feeling of complete…security, as Martin was gripping her so tightly that she doubted anything could get at her.

“Enjoy this.” Deborah murmured, opening her eyes and lifting her head so that she could whisper in Martin’s ear, her lips almost brushing the skin, “Because it’s not going to happen often.”

She felt more than heard Martin laugh, the movement rippling through his chest, and she gripped the fabric of his shoulders beneath her fingers. When she glanced over his face, or as much of it as she could see from the angle she was at, she saw with a spark of pleasure that he was wearing his adorably devilish smirk.

“So it’s going to happen sometimes?” Martin inquired, tugging at her back playfully.

Deborah pursed her lips rather than smile fully; it was enough that she felt ready to slip her arms from Martin’s shoulders and step back, colliding with her desk as she seemed to have forgotten quite where she had been standing.

Martin too stepped back hastily, hands diving immediately for his pockets, and then to fiddle with his sleeves, as his eyes darted this way and that, only meeting Deborah’s gaze between this and that.

It was only then, with the added distance between them (though that was only a few feet – she was extremely aware of that fact), that Deborah was able to formulate a clever response to Martin’s implication.

“Only if you’re lucky.” She drawled, smirking and leaning back against her desk; she let her hands curl around the edge of the desk, grounding her against the strange feeling of weightlessness, or it might have been dizziness from a yet unnoticed injury.

Martin quirked an eyebrow and looked thoughtful for a moment, then his eyes lit up as he found the perfect retort.

“Well…perhaps I…might be.” He remarked, never breaking eye contact; Deborah couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped, though Martin knew her well enough to spot the reaction caused by a terrible, terrible move in their games.

Without another word, Martin wandered back over to his own desk, dropping into his chair and fiddling nonsensically with various papers and tools, not doing much of anything with any of them.

Deborah watched for a few moments, unsure of quite what to do with herself. Carolyn and Arthur hadn’t come out to give her instructions yet, and Martin was…preoccupied.

She supposed that given the direction the day seemed to be taking, her only option was to relish the winning of another impromptu competition.

It was that, or wonder why it seemed oddly like Martin was…flirting with her.

Because that in itself was a ridiculous notion...

But then again, fake flirting might add a whole new layer of fun to their games if they could pull it off without it becoming awkward. Hell, it might actually strengthen whatever friendship they were slowly but surely building.


	10. Helsinki

**Helsinki**

The sun was shining, they had a single day job, she’d be home by the evening, and she stood to make some sort of profit from the trip. So long as Martin was in a good mood, Deborah thought that today stood to be a pleasant day.

Humming a bouncing tune under her breath, Deborah careful arranged the finely packed flowers into the flight-deck storage space; it would mean that their bags would have to sit at the back on the floor, but she was sure that Martin would accept that, given all the far worse things that she had persuaded him to do.

She had to admit, she was rather enjoying herself. So she had to get into work earlier than everyone else; it was worth it for the fun she was having. Harry hadn’t approved of her storing all sorts of wonderful things in their house, so there was an interesting novelty to picking up the habit with a flare.

The door to the flight-deck opened with a swish, and Deborah turned, her legs slipping around the gap underneath the arm of her seat, to smile welcomingly at Martin; she was thoroughly aware of the bunch of flowers still in her hands, and knew that there was no point being brutally honest. Six months ago she might have been wary, but now she was mostly confident that she could win Martin over.

“Oh! Hello Deborah.” Martin greeted her, pausing in the doorway; his eyebrows raised and then furrowed, as he looked curiously at the slight mess around him; he couldn’t complain though, Decorah had been careful not to leave any stray petals on the Captain’s seat, just for him, “Good lord!”

“Ah. Morning, Martin.” Deborah replied cheerfully, smiling again; the responsive smile was good, as it meant that he couldn’t pick faults, or at least, that was the plan; besides, she was actually pleased to see him, “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

“Evidently not!” Martin remarked, still standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame; he was peering around her, as if trying to work out exactly what he was dealing with. Deborah supposed that it was a step up from what he would have done a year ago, storming in and demanding that she stop whatever she was doing at once.

“Have you picked up the weather?” Deborah inquired pleasantly, tapping her fingers daintily on the rim of the pot she was holding in her lap.

“Er, yes. North Sea turbulence; clear skies at Helsinki.” Martin answered, finally taking his eyes from the flight-deck in general to meet her gaze, rubbing at the back of his neck; he even took his hat from his head to fiddle with, like a stalling tactic.

“Oh, jolly good.” Deborah replied, plastering on another simple smile; until Martin moved from the doorway or stated his opinion, there was little else she could do but be as lovely as possible to gain his favour.

Martin nodded, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth as he looked thoughtful. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

“Deborah, I can’t help but notice you’ve filled the flight deck with orchids.” He remarked nonchalantly, extending his hat to encompass the whole flight-deck, waiting for an explanation.

A wave of relief washed over her, and Deborah sighed and nodded briefly, pursing her lips as if to say ‘what can I do, really?’ Over the past month or so, what Martin had previously been thinking of as Deborah’s ‘ _bad habits’_ , had apparently shifted into Deborah’s ‘ _odd quirks’_ , and that made a huge difference in the way that he was addressing them. After all, bad habits were to be punished, but how could you deal with odd quirks if not by accepting and playing along.

“Yes. Yes, I have done that.” Deborah stated, patting her hands lightly over the orchids on her lap, and finding nothing else that could be said; it wasn’t like she could _lie_ , what would be the point, “Yes.”

“Are you about to propose to me?” Martin inquired, folding his arms demonstratively over his chest and pouting ever so slightly, the corners of his lips curling upwards as that playful light wandered into his blue eyes.

 _Thank god,_ Deborah sighed inwardly; Martin was so much more fun when he played with her than when he tried to put her on the right path. Clearly orchids weren’t enough of a threat to the CAA to warrant opposition.

“It pains me to break your heart, Martin, but no.” Deborah remarked warmly.

Martin shook his head and huffed dramatically, his cheeks flushing ever so lightly pink as he crossed the flight-deck and slipped into his own seat, turning so that he could talk face to face.

“Damn,” he pretended to curse, digging the air with a loosely curled fist, grinning as Deborah rolled her eyes, “and to think I almost had a chance there.”

Deborah bit back a laugh and shrugged her shoulders, leaning in a fraction to engage him further.

“Maybe next time, darling.” She drawled, smirking as Martin shook his head and bit at his bottom lip, blush threatening to meet his freckles as he probably considered a reply, “These are for another man – a Finnish customs officer named Milo, to be exact.”

“And what does he have that _I_ don’t have?!” Martin retorted in mock offense, placing a fluttering hand over his heart.

“Fish cakes.” Deborah replied briefly, enjoying the contortion that Martin’s expression performed as he battled confusion; the outward sigh and tapping of his fingers atop the hat that he was still fingering on his knee was evidence of his exasperation.

“Really?!” Martin asked, clearly unsure of whether she was joking or not, eyes burning pathways over her face as if cataloguing each flicker for later analysis, like a crime scene investigator spotting a potential for further incident.

“Also salmon, turbot and langoustine.” Deborah elucidated, making the effort not to look quite as smug as she felt, even though she straightened up in her seat and smirked proudly.

“Oh, _Deborah_ , you’re not smuggling again?” Martin groaned, shaking his head and thwacking her gently across the knee with the tip of his hat; as she brushed the action away with her hand, still smirking, she took it as a matter of pride that Martin didn’t seem angry, as he might once have been, simple bemused and exasperated at her antics.

At least she knew that she was doing _something_ right; or perhaps Martin had just eased up.

“Absolutely not. Perish the thought!” Deborah exclaimed, adjusting the plant on her lap as Martin quirked an eyebrow, slouching back and joining his hands over his own lap, “A simple exchange of gifts. You see, a friend gave me these orchids when we were in Cyprus, as a token of appreciation for the sixteen jars of Béarnaise sauce I gave him; which were in turn an unwanted gift from a friend in Marseilles. The orchids are lovely but not quite my thing, so I shall pass them on to my friend in Helsinki and – who knows? – he may wish to show his gratitude by presenting me with assorted fish and fish products, which will be just the very thing for a friend of mine in Zurich.” She explained, then shrugged carelessly, “They’re rather short of fresh seafood in Switzerland – don’t know why.”

“I see.” Martin replied, nodding in understanding, “But if you just keep bartering each thing along, what’s the point?”

“Well, put it this way: I have here about five hundred Euros’ worth of flowers, and I shall exchange them for about five hundred and sixty Euros’ worth of fish; and I started three months ago with a cheese sandwich.” Deborah explained plainly; she glanced down at her watch and rapped her hands against the side of the pot in her lap, “Right – that’s most of them hidden away. Could you put this bunch under your seat?”

Martin groaned and rolled his eyes, but he accepted the plant being held out to him. Just in time too, as the moment that the last leaves disappeared from view, the flight-deck door flew open, only to admit an Arthur even more charged with cheer and bubbles than usual.

oOoOoOo

Despite the mess that was Carolyn’s birthday (and Deborah was never going to forget the date again if it cost her the price of a hotel room), Deborah was in relatively good spirits. She was neither miserable nor overly cheery, and there was the promise of a good trade on the horizon.

It was even mildly entertaining to watch the goings on as they deteriorated into madness; it wasn’t as if anything truly awful could happen, so why not sit back and enjoy the show?

For all the Kieran deserved to be strangled with a frayed rope, Deborah could endure his pig-headed, snotty-nosed ramblings for the sake of Martin’s own self-important declarations; six months ago she would have been silently stewing at his blasé approach to ‘blowing his own trumpet’ as he had put it, but the odd thing about being his friend meant that now that particular fault, as he tipped his head back and slipped into the nonchalance of a badly trained pantomime actor, could be seen as almost endearing.

In the way that one would affectionately pet a puppy before it ran head first into a wall and knocked itself silly.

Deborah had to admit, she felt a little sorry for Carolyn, and indignant on her behalf; she had been confused at first at the way that Ruth was talking to her sister, and then had to tell herself not to interfere when she realised that the jabs _were_ malicious.

Eventually though, the repetitive back and forth between Martin and Kieran had got to be too much, and Deborah felt that she had no choice but to seek a respite. Excusing herself, though neither seemed to notice that she was leaving at all, Deborah wandered into the Galley, keeping an ear out just in case Martin decide to murder the child in a fit of pique.

As she pushed the curtain aside and let it fall behind her, Deborah wasn’t surprised to see that Arthur was already in the Galley, bent over one of his interesting concoctions; she hadn’t expected him to hang around while his mother was on the warpath.

He didn’t look up when she entered, as he was too busy furrowing his eyebrows and biting at the corner of his mouth on concentration.

“Hello, Arthur.” Deborah greeted, wandering to his side to try and peer at the strange mess that he was mixing; now that she was able to take a proper look at his face, she though that Arthur looked a bit less cheery than usual, so she patted him lightly on the elbow as she asked, “Kettle on?”

Arthur’s arms stopped pumping, sagging with the release of energy, and he turned his brown eyes to smile grimace apologetically down at her.

“Oh, er, you should’ve rung. I’d have-I’d have made it.” He remarked, making a move as if to reach for the kettle.

Deborah stopped him with a hand over his, which she pulled back to his concoction, shaking her head in a placatory manner.

“No, I wanted a little respite from Junior Mussolini.” She sighed, slipping an arm around Arthur’s back in a sort of sideways hug, so that he could continue working while she observed and rubbed comforting circles on his back; he looked as if he could use it, which was evidence of how dire he was feeling, and enough to gain her sympathies, “Besides, it’s been ages since I came to visit you back here; I feel I’ve rather been neglecting you.”

“What? _No…_ ” Arthur insisted, taking a moment to swing his arm around her shoulder and squeeze playfully before retracting it and continuing with his quest, “It’s good that you and Martin are getting on so well – so you don’t hang out in the Galley as much as you did with the other Captains, that’s okay; it just means that when _I_ come and see _you_ , it’s got a much nicer feel to it.”

“Hmm…our last Captain _was_ an arse, wasn’t he?” Deborah replied, considering dipping her finger into Arthur’s mixture and then changing her mind; perhaps it would look better when he finished.

“He wasn’t…well he was a bit…” Arthur reasoned, and then shook his head, as if he had other things to be worrying about, “He wasn’t as brilliant as Skip, that’s for sure.”

“No.” Deborah agreed, and then on a second thought, “Only Martin could fight with a fourteen year old for over an hour.”

Arthur chuckled in a scattered way, but continued to mash the increasingly muddy mixture. Deborah scanned his face for a moment, taking in the irritation bubbling just under the surface of his otherwise rigid façade of alright.

Now, Arthur may have been a clot, but he was a reliable clot; in fact, Deborah could say with an obscure certainty that in recent years, no man had remained as permanent in her life as Arthur had. He had outlived even Harry in that respect. Arthur was the epitome of everlasting okay.

Even when he wasn’t, it was usually pretty easy to shift the balance back. As a result, Deborah couldn’t seem to stand seeing him unhappy; it made uncomfortable worms nestle in her guts.

“Is it me Arthur, or are you looking particularly frazzled today?” Deborah inquired gently, making sure not to stall in the circles that she was rubbing at his back.

Arthur paused in his actions, shrugging dismissively, his lips shooting upwards into a wavering smile.

“Frazzled – but not in a bad way, just in a, ‘oh, I’ve got a lot to do today’ kind of way.” He reassured her; when Deborah’s quirked eyebrow and steady glare didn’t drop, Arthur’s shoulders sagged and he sighed, “Nothing’s really going to plan, is it?”

Deborah rolled her eyes, and following a trickle of affection, slipped her other arm around Arthur’s waist and leant into him in a semblance of a hug; given that he was almost a whole head taller than her, and still elbow deep in sludge, it was a rather one-sided affair, with her arms around him and her head resting just below his shoulder.

Arthur was warm as always, as if he had just come from a jog, he tried awkwardly to return the embrace, ‘aw’-ing and squeezing her lightly.

“I wouldn’t worry about things going wrong, Arthur.” Deborah remarked, tipping her head back so that her chin rested on his upper arm and she could address him properly, “You just carry on what you’re doing and I’ll sort out the rest.”

“Aw, thanks Deborah!” Arthur crooned, letting her slip away to stand back at his side, arms folded loosely over her chest, “You must be in a good mood – first a cuddle and now you’re helping me with my plan. It’ll be just like the old days, expect with _you_ helping _me_ , instead of you roping me into getting revenge on the old Captains.” Arthur’s nose scrunched as his eyes took on a thoughtful edge, “Which I’m still not sure about, you know, except for that handsy one that tried to-.”

“Revenge is a two person job, Arthur; I couldn’t have done it without you.” Deborah interjected with a wave of her hand; there was only so much reminiscing and heart to hearts that she could endure; she pointed at the bowl of sludge, “What on earth _are_ you doing?”

“… I’m making a cake.” Arthur replied slowly, fixing her with a no nonsense stare; it was only then that Deborah noticed that he was still wielding the whisk.

She smiled in a placatory way, raising her hands in surrender; she was well versed in Arthur’s tendency to treat her as if _she_ were the one lagging behind after the uptake. It was a little bewildering, but if she supposed that if they were on different pages, she might _appear_ to be the slower one when Arthur’s brain was capable of making extraordinary leaps between the otherwise unconnected.

“Are you? Right.” Deborah nodded, inspecting the mixture appraisingly, “Out of … mud and gravel?”

“Chocolate mousse.” Arthur answered pointedly; if Deborah didn’t know any better, she would say he was pouting, “We had six individual chocolate mousses left over from Cyprus. I thought if I kind of ground up these amaretto biscuits in them and then put it in a dish on top of the toasted sandwich maker, it would make a sort of …”

“Ah…” Deborah whistled through her teeth; at least this disaster was controllable, unlike the ones on either side of the Galley, “It didn’t though, did it?”

“No.” Arthur stated without further elaboration; Deborah had to bite back a smirk at how done with the world he sounded.

“And what’s behind this sudden enthusiasm for patisserie?” Deborah inquired, nudging Arthur lightly on the elbow to try and kick-start some enthusiasm; in truth, she had never seen him send so much distaste at anything, as he did whilst staring at his failure of a cake.

Which was hilarious in its own way, because nothing was funnier than Arthur when he was ticked off; it was like a distorted version of Carolyn.

“Mum’s birthday!” Arthur exclaimed, gesturing vehemently at the cake mixture, “I really wanted to surprise her with a cake.”

“I think you’ll _definitely_ surprise her with that one.” Deborah drawled, repressing an amused grin at the crestfallen irritation that clouded Arthur’s face; then her traitorous mind caught up with her, and she leaned forward, holding her finger just above the cake mixture as she peered suspiciously at it, “So that’s _just_ chocolate mousse and biscuits? Nothing else? No special ingredients, or accidental spillages, or poison?”

“No.” Arthur replied curtly; he was definitely pouting now, and Deborah spared him a fleeting glance over her shoulder as he watched her interfere without protest.

“So I won’t die if I taste it for you?” she inquired, prodding the mixture and retracting her hand, inspecting the gloopy substance on the tip of her finger. Arthur wasn’t _that_ bad of a cook.

“Well I hope not.” Arthur shrugged, though she wasn’t so sure whether he was being honest, or just petulant; for all she knew, given the tone that he had used, he might use her death to perfect his recipe next time.

Carolyn would approve.

Never one to step back from a challenge, Deborah sighed, more at herself than anything else.

“You know what? For you Arthur, I’ll risk it.”

oOoOoOo

Deborah hovered outside the small cafe; it was rundown and stingy enough that they were the only customers, so it had taken very little persuasion for the owner to allow them to stage their impromptu birthday inside it.

All things considered, it actually looked as if things were going to go off with a surprisingly successful bang. Martin, Arthur, and Kieran were all ushered inside, Carolyn was going to be pleasantly caught off guard, which would make Arthur happy, which would make everyone happy…and Deborah was absolutely certain that she had managed to pull it off.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Carolyn and Ruth making slow progress towards the café; it looked as if they would be too distracted by their quarrel to arrive before everything was properly set up, so with a fleeting grin, Deborah swept back through the café door.

“All right? Everyone ready?” she called out, and then froze when she saw the scene laid out before her.

Arthur must have been hiding, keeping to the plan, but Martin and Kieran were facing off in the middle of the room. Martin’s chest was heaving, and his cheeks were flushed scarlet as he glared at the boy with a passion that made Deborah realise that no, Martin hadn’t been lying when he had said he never hated her. She would have noticed him glaring at her with the kind of stiffed jawed loathing he was wearing in that moment.

Kieran, as was often the way with boys on the cusp of young-adulthood, was oblivious to the effect that his words could have, as he leaned back on his heels, exulting with a bolstered confidence the one opinion that could truly raise Martin’s hackles.

Deborah could almost pinpoint the moment her heart sank with a dread of inevitability.

“So when you say that you’re the captain, you mean you’re the captain out of the two of you?” Kieran laughed sarcastically, gesturing disdainfully between the two of them, eyes wide with hilarity.

“Yes.” Martin spat through gritted teeth; his hands were clenching at his sides, and Deborah remained cautiously at the closed door, waiting to see what he would do, hoping wanly that he might not live up to her expectations, “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m … Of course, that makes sense of everything.” Kieran explained in a round-about way; Deborah’s heart sank even further.

“What do you mean, ‘everything’?” Martin demanded, practically vibrating with rage; he was gnawing furiously at his bottom lip in an attempt to remain calm.

“Well, the flying school rejection, the instrument rating failure, just the general … way you are.” Kieran waved his hand to encompass Martin as a whole, smirking as if he were so pleased with himself, the little sod.

“You little …” Martin growled, his cheeks burning as he puffed out his chest, hands clenching stiltedly. Deborah knew him well enough to understand exactly what was about to happen; she also knew him well enough not to let him do what he was thinking of doing.

“ _Martin!”_ Deborah raised her voice, hoping that the Captain would hear her and swiftly decide that she was far more worth his time, leaving the detestable boy alone.

Unfortunately, Kieran was louder, and Martin’s pride was a force to be reckoned with.

“Imagine, though: all this time I actually thought you were a proper captain!” he exclaimed, laughing even as Martin pushed the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows.

“Right!” Martin hissed angrily; Deborah watched with a muted despair, unsure of quite what she was expected to do. Martin was never one to listen to what she had to say, but it was worth a try. She couldn’t let him hit a child, for Christ’s sake.

“Martin _, no.”_ Deborah instructed, in the same tone of voice she used when shouting at Arthur’s horrible dog; she even raised her hand in warning, but to no avail.

Before she had time to move, Martin had clipped Kieran round the ear, the back of his fingers flicking against the side of his head. It wasn’t a particularly damaging act, only enough to make Deborah roll her eyes and stated plaintively that,

“Oh dear. That’s really bad.”

However, going by the shock on Kieran’s face, and the mortification on Martin’s, it might have been the end of the world.

“Oh no. I-I’m sorry.” Martin begged desperately, hands splayed wide in the air in a show of surrender, “I’m s… I’m really sorry.”

“You hit me!” Kieran squawked, touching his ear with his hand as if tracing the edges of a bullet wound.

“Ah, come on.” Deborah remarked, waving her hand dismissively as she began to stroll to Martin’s side, in a show of solidarity, even if Martin _was_ an idiot of monumental proportions; he had earned that much at least, “It was just a little clip round the ear.”

“Which means I can do this.” Kieran shrieked, eyes blazing with barely contained vicious glee.

Deborah only had time to jump back in shock as the teenager leapt at Martin, knocking the Captain to the ground as he cried out in pain. Deborah winced and stood back as Martin squealed and curled in pain, and the boy brought all of his limbs to the task.

She wanted to help, the last thing she wanted to see was Martin in pain, but there was nothing that she could do without taking a kick to the knees herself; small as the teenager was, she wasn’t going to risk injuring herself.

Thankfully, Carolyn and her sister chose that moment to burst into the room, and Kieran leapt to his feet, leaving Martin dry sobbing and twitching in pain on the floor, as he came under interrogation.

Deborah ignored what was being said, crossing the few steps to drop down beside Martin, hooking her hands under his arms and helping him wince into a seated position, slipping underneath one of his arms as a support, and then hoisting him to his feet.

The last thing his pride needed was to be left sitting on the floor like a wounded labradoodle.

A spark of relief shuddered in her chest as Martin was able to lift himself using his knees, only really leaning on her for the moral support it seemed; as she pressed a hand against his chest, checking for the tell-tale recoil that would signal broken ribs, something that didn’t come, she glanced up to find that he was grimacing gratefully down at her.

The redness on his face could have been his flush or new bruises, and the thought made horrible sensations take root in her stomach; added to that was the fact that on second inspection, the arm that wasn’t still slung over her shoulder as he leaned into her was being bent and unbent as if testing the joint, and Martin was rubbing agitatedly at his side.

“You okay?” Deborah whispered, unwilling to interrupt the feud taking place a few feet away.

Martin held her gaze and nodded swiftly, expression contorting fleetingly even as he answered.

It was only when she heard her name that Deborah turned away from patting Martin down for injuries located in the chest area, retracting her hand but allowing him to continue using her as a crutch.

“Deborah, didn’t he hit me?” Kieran demanded, looking every bit his age as the glares of his grandmother and great aunt threatened to bring upon him very bad things if he were found to be lying.

For all that she thought he deserved it, Deborah couldn’t lie about this.

“He may have given you a little clip round the ear.” She replied defensively, aiming for nonchalance.

It didn’t work.

After that, everything just descended into madness. Ruth began to criticised as much of Carolyn as she could lay her hands on, and Deborah began to feel a strange indignant anger about the whole thing; she was about to leap to Carolyn’s defence when Arthur beat her to it.

Apparently a whole day on the edge could push even the friendliest of people to drastic action when their mothers were under fire.

Among the shouting and messy horror, the next thing that Deborah was properly aware of was slipping Martin’s arm from around her shoulders, taking his hand in hers, and leading him from the room to the much quieter hall outside.

She was acutely aware of how warm his skin was, how his long fingers curled around hers, and knew that he was probably gaping at her, mouth flapping, hand holding down his hat to stop it from falling in their hurry, but she ignored that in favour of finding somewhere quiet to make sure that he didn’t have internal bleeding.

The hall was quiet enough that when she released him, and turned to face him properly, Deborah could just about hear Martin groaning when he moved his arm.

With a sigh, she took in his rumpled appearance. First things first, the red marks on his cheeks _were_ beginning to yellow around the edges. Deborah stepped forward, taking Martin’s face in her hands and peering at the beginnings of bruised, stroking lightly to see how much pain he was in.

“Deborah, what are you doing?” Martin asked, his voice just a fraction higher than it normally was; despite his perplexed expression, and the fact that he leaned ever so slightly away from her, he also placed his hands on either side of her waist, helping her balance where she had been wobbling in order to reach him properly.

Deborah rolled her eyes and tutted in exasperation, her gaze flickering to his, noting how much prettier his eyes were up close.

“I’m checking these bruises to determine whether you need to put ice on them.” She explained wryly, pressing her finger down into his cheeks, watching him pull away more from discomfort than agony, “What? Did you think I’d just leave you to suffer?”

“I uh…” Martin stuttered gormlessly, eyeing her warily as she stepped back, taking her hands from his face but staying close; his own hands rose almost unconsciously to rub at his cheeks, then his expression shuttered and he shook his head quickly, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, “No, no – of course not. So…ice?”

Deborah shook her head, smirking cheerfully as she folded her arms loosely over her chest. She was close enough that she had to lean back and tilt her head to make proper eye contact with Martin, but she felt no desire to move; he didn’t, so why should she?

“No, I reckon you’ll be alright.” Deborah replied, running her sights over Martin once again, just in case she had missed something, “What’ve you done to your arm?”

Martin’s eyes widened in surprise, and he shook the offending limb with a sheepish grin.

“It’s just a bit sore – I’ll stretch it and it’ll be fine.” Martin remarked nonchalantly; then his playfulness died down, and he asked more tentatively, “Was that _really_ bad?”

Deborah shrugged, smiling wanly; it might have been awful at a proper airline, but she had done much worse in her time, and Carolyn had yet to fire her. It was best not to worry Martin too much after the beating that he had taken.

“A bit, yes, but I wouldn’t worry.” She assured him, adding thoughtlessly as Martin rubbed at the back of his neck, “ _I_ still like you.”

Martin’s movements slowed, and his face softened and lit up with a light blush that made the bruises just a little starker; for a moment he didn’t reply, merely tracing the floor with his eyes, shifting awkwardly and biting his lip. Then he smiled sweetly, taking care to meet Deborah ‘s gaze, even as she tightened her arms around her chest, inwardly wondering why she was being so nice to the man who had not twenty minutes ago been flailing comically.

“Oh, well…that’s uh, that’s good…that’s…nice.” Martin mumbled; he inhaled sharply as if realising a huge mistake, and then reached across to pat Deborah companionably on the arm, “It’s….it’s mutual.”

Deborah’s chest fluttered horribly at the movement, and she couldn’t quite hide the imperceptible smile that appeared on her lips; internally she was screaming as she was sure that the tickling in her cheeks spelled the paper-thin beginnings of a hateful blush.

She nodded quickly, avoiding meeting Martin’s gaze as she finally stepped back from his personal space, turning back towards the café, from which the shouts were beginning to fade.

“It sounds like they’re nearly done.” Deborah noted, and Martin was hasty to mirror her business-like nod; there was no doubt that it was time to go, before anything else occurred that she couldn’t understand, “Perhaps we should begin filing a flight plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was enjoyed by all  
> Let me know what you think - I'm a bit uncertain how my inter-character relationships are coming across, so if you have thoughts on that, I'd be glad to hear them


	11. Interlude 4

**Interlude 4**

Deborah groaned and dropped her head onto the tattered cushions, closing her eyes and doing her best to concentrate on the feel of MJN’s sofa, scratching against the slithers of exposed skin around her wrists. The resounding emotion of the day was one that screamed ‘I can’t be bothered’.

She was never one to complain about this sort of thing, or make any kind of fuss, much more likely to just get on with her job…but it had been years since it had hurt so much. Deborah clutched at her abdomen, pressing down as securely as she could as she opened her eyes and surveyed the porta-cabin.

Arthur and Martin had been sent off to perform various errands, and Carolyn, obviously spotting her distress with the keen eye that only other women seemed to possess, had instructed that Deborah do paperwork…only to allow her to curl up on the sofa for twenty minutes or so instead.

Carolyn hadn’t said a word directly, but she had definitely seen Deborah hunch over clutching at her stomach as one moment she was fine, making herself a coffee, and the next, she was fighting abdominal cramps and a burst of dizziness.

Deborah could only find it in herself to be irritated; it was never this bad. To make things worse, it wasn’t even a constant pain, it was a waxing and waning ache that meant she could work cheerfully for hours at a time, only to be struck down when actual thinking needed to be done.

To her relief, Carolyn had retreated to her own office to work, so at least there was some peace and quiet to go with the dull buzzing at the back of her mind.

The moment that the thought crossed Deborah’s mind, the door to the porta-cabin creaked open, and Martin stepped through, whistling a grating tune as he kicked the door shut with the back of his foot, and wandered towards his desk, not noticing her for the sake of the papers that he was rifling through.

“Martin, charming a tune as that is, could you perhaps refrain from sharing it?” Deborah sighed, shifting so that she was lying on her back, making it easier to watch Martin without having to endure the uncomfortable warmth of the sofa squashing her face.

Martin paused, looked around the room with pinched eyebrows, and then jumped a little when his eyes fell upon the sofa.

“Deborah?” he asked, quirking his eyebrow; when Deborah only huffed in response, his expression shifted to concern, and he deviated from his course to place the papers on his desk before approaching the sofa slowly, “Are you alright?”

Deborah turned her head to meet his as he crouched beside her, placing his hand on the cushions just beside her hip and scanning her as if for defects. She pouted drearily, hardly energised enough to be anything more than exasperated.

“I’m fine, Martin.” Deborah assured him, swinging her arm out sluggishly to pat his elbows, before returning it to her stomach, “Just a less than pleasant time of the month, is all.”

Martin’s eyes widened in realisation, and he winced in sympathy, nodding with thinned lips as he rose to his feet, crossing over the room to shuffle the papers on his desk.

“I have painkillers if you’d like some.” He offered, already rifling through the drawer where his knees would sit if he were seated.

Deborah hummed in relief, smiling and nodded swiftly, eyeing Martin’s acknowledgement and making an effort to place her hand atop the back of the sofa and drag herself into a vertical position, closing her eyes as the blood rushed into her skull.

She thanked whatever deity that Martin was one of those mature men that didn’t grimace and make a fuss at the mention of menstrual cramps and the like; Harry had been a fine culprit, putting his fingers in his ears and joking that he didn’t need to hear whenever she asked him to pick up supplies for her. Arthur was the complete opposite; she had made the mistake of complaining to him only once, and never again, as she had spent a week drowning in hot chocolate and cakes, and pulled into far too many hugs. She couldn’t see Martin doing that.

Just one more thing that she was discovering about her Captain that was making it slowly but surely easier to accept him as part of the family.

The sofa dipped as Martin came to sit beside her, slipping a plastic pot of pills and a bottle of water into her hands. Deborah smiled gratefully, and went about administering the medication. The only complaint that she could have placed at that moment was the fact that the spell of dizziness and agony seemed to have gone away for now. Typical.

When she looked up, it was to find that Martin was watching her with an indecipherable crinkle on his face, his bottom lip gnawed between his teeth as if he were revving himself up internally. Deborah raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Is it _really_ that bad?” Martin inquired finally, sounding genuinely interested; Deborah thought that it was likely that he had come out on the wrong side of many women by behaving the wrong way, and was trying to fill some gaps in his knowledge using the one woman that he was unlikely to need to worry about upsetting.

“My internal organs are tearing themselves apart and then ejecting themselves.” Deborah explained curtly, taking a perverse pleasure from the horror that washed over Martin’s face as he tensed, and then aimed for nonchalance, linking his fingers together on his lap.

“Oh, right…that bad then.” Martin nodded, pursing his lips and barely meeting her eyes, “Shouldn’t you…I don’t know…do you want to go home? Get some rest until you feel better?”

Deborah chuckled warmly, smiling and leaning back into the sofa, keeping her gaze fixed on Martin as he followed the movement.

“Oh, Martin, if women took time off of work every month because they were in pain, the world might stop turning.” She drawled, slinking her arms loosely around her chest, “But I appreciate the thought. Just be extra nice to me.”

Martin rolled his eyes and exhaled at length as he crossed his arms behind his head and sank back to mirror her; apparently the paperwork could wait. Deborah assumed that he had already filed everything that needed to be done, as if he would ever be behind schedule.

“I’m _always_ nice to you.” Martin insisted, grinning down at her.

There were many choice things that Deborah could have said to that, but she let it be. If she was able to keep him in a good mood, he might even be convinced to fetch her some coffee and cakes from the Costa down the road.

oOoOoOo

To his credit, Martin _did_ make an effort to even nicer than usual. He had fetched cups of tea, and played every game without complaining about his losses; Martin had even let her take a particularly tricky landing, as if he thought that it was something that might lift her spirits. She had to admit, the man was getting to know her.

To top it off, he kept up his efforts for the best part of a week, long after Deborah was feeling cheerful and healthy again; not that she hadn’t stretched it out, just to enjoy the rare peace that settled over GERTI as Martin seemed unwilling to prompt an argument that might upset her.

Which was why, after a flight to New York, where they would be spending two nights, returning home on the third day, Deborah had agreed to accompany Martin on an exploration of the city. It might be nice, she had told herself; they usually went their separate ways, but after all of his efforts, she reckoned that he deserved to be pandered to in the smallest of ways.

So, tucked up in an old dress and her coat, she had let Martin interpret the map that he had got hold of, eyes narrowed and nose scrunched as he neurotically made sure that they were lined up exactly as the page was each time he checked it, and they had ventured out.

There wasn’t much of interest that she hadn’t seen before, and the things that they did find weren’t Martin’s scene; inevitably, they had ended up in a steady cross between a bar and a nightclub. Not too loud, but not too sedate.

Martin had been wary about drinking, as Deborah couldn’t, but after some convincing, he had given in and was enjoying himself, on the promise that Deborah would make sure he got back to the hotel safe and sound.

By midnight, Deborah wasn’t regretting the decision. Martin when drunk was hilarious to be around; he talked a lot of nonsense, but she was genuinely enjoying listening to him, a blossom of warmth fluttering in her chest that she suspected was the effect of too much smoke in the air and delayed exhaustion.

Martin for his part talked with a wide smile on his face, light blush meeting his freckled cheeks without overflowing, making fluid arm movements and leaning comfortably against the bar as he described some contraption made of cardboard that he had once tried to fly from his parents’ roof. Deborah wasn’t sure that the story was quite correct, as she didn’t think his sister had telepathically dared him to jump, or believe for a minute that his plane had soared the few feet that he claimed it had, but she didn’t have the heart to do more than nod and laugh.

“What time is it?” Martin inquired, releasing another empty glass onto the bar behind him and flopping his arm over to turn Deborah’s wrist, the _wrong_ wrist, in order to check her watch.

Deborah sighed and stepped to his side, placing her arm an inch behind his back to herd him away from the bar.

“Time to take you back to the hotel I think.” She answered cheerfully, pleased when Martin allowed himself to be lead through the spattering of a crowd and towards the door.

“Oh…that’s good of you.” Martin replied, sounding truthfully touched at the gesture, even if his words were slurred a bit more than slightly, and he stumbled as he tried to turn and address her while simultaneously exiting the establishment, “Thank you for looking after me.”

“It’s my pleasure Martin.” Deborah assured him, patting him lightly on the back as they crossed the road.

The walk back to the hotel was uneventful, save for the impromptu stop that Martin engineered outside of a restaurant, in which he debated out loud whether he should stop for food there, or get some at the hotel, apparently looking to her for advice, but continuing to talk the moment that she tried to offer any kind of consolation. Deborah just had to shake her head and simply take him by the sleeve to drag him obediently behind her; even drunk, Martin was still pragmatic to a tee and incapable of just letting things be.

Martin behaved once they were in the hotel, obviously understanding the unspoken rules of the establishment and remaining pointedly hushed as they rode the lift up to their floor; Deborah had to bite her lip to stop from laughing at the seriousness on his face as he peered decisively down his nose the entire time. Then as they wandered towards his room (Carolyn had booked them separate ones this time), she caught him staring at her every now and then, too sluggish to turn away quickly enough, though he seemed to think that he had.

The whole debacle was amusing; Deborah found that she was practically living for the moments that she could make Martin behave as anything other than a professional, something that was both depressing and mildly hilarious in the moment.

At the door of his room, Martin leant against the wall while Deborah searched through her pockets for the second room key that he had given her at the beginning of the night, in case of emergencies.

When she finally held the plastic card between her fingers, she looked up to find that Martin was watching her intensely again, back pressed against the wall as he slouched, lips curled upwards as his eyes narrowed in thought.

“You know…” Martin slurred, making it sound as if he were the most important statement in the world, with the certainty that was usually delivered only with important flight decisions, “ _You…_ are a _stunning_ woman.”

Deborah opened her mouth to reply, both confused and bemused, and a little put out, but held her retort, instead nodding slowly and folding her arms over her chest, deciding to humour the Captain’s moment of retrospection; it wouldn’t be the first time that someone had done this after all. She had just hoped that Martin wouldn’t.

“Well, let it not be said Captain, that my looks haven’t been noted before.” Deborah drawled patiently, making sure to maintain a pleasant expression even though she was ready to pat him on the back and herd him into his room, only to look forward to mocking him the next morning.

To her bewilderment, Martin shook his head vehemently, looking put out by the fact that she didn’t understand whatever it was he was hoping to transmit, but smirking nonetheless as if privy to a secret that only he knew.

“ _No_ …not the outside of you – but that’s pretty too…but not _just_ the out-outside of you…” Martin drawled, he raised his hand, fingers splayed to gesture up and down her body, seemingly blind to Deborah’s raised eyebrow and pursed lips as his eyes followed his hands trail and the movement pushed his balance off enough that he had to lean further into the wall, “ _No…no…_ the _all_ of you – the _all_ of you’s _s-stunning_.”

Deborah inhaled slowly, unsure of where Martin was going with this; she wasn’t even sure quite how she was feeling about it, but was peripherally aware of the mere foot of space between them.

“How so?” she inquired curtly, observing the thoughts visibly flittering across Martin’s face as he drew his lips through his teeth.

“I-it’s just _you_ …you’re so beautiful, out here –b-but also _here_ ,” Martin leant forward and tapped clumsily at the side of her head; Deborah didn’t flinch, but she watched his face with a reformed bemusement, “and _here_ …” this time Martin’s hand fell briefly on her breast, but she was certain that as he retracted his hand, he had meant to point at her heart, even though he did aim for the wrong side of her chest, “and also in your _words_ …i-it’s just _all_ of you…is so _stunning_ …”

Deborah swallowed awkwardly as she nodded to show him that she had understood; Martin smiled as if pleased with himself, and she tried not to catch his eye as she battened down the strange wriggling in her chest. Blinking hastily, and shaking her head, plastering on a tight-lipped smile, Deborah readjusted her arms over her chest, feeling oddly wrong-footed and choked up.

“That’s…that’s sweet of you to say Martin.” Deborah said politely, sighing at the coy grin that curled Martin’s lips, “Thank you. Now do you think-”

She was about to suggest that he go into his room and sleep off the alcohol, but Martin talked over her, unable as always to stop trying to cover all bases at all times; or perhaps his mental filters just deteriorated with drink, Deborah couldn’t tell.

“I only say that, that you’re beautiful,” Martin slurred, waggling his finger demonstratively in front of his face as he refused to stop leaning against the wall, “ _because_ …in the bar, when we were in the bar, I kept _thinking_ …I kept thinking that, that _your husband_ …he must be a brave man.”

The strange feeling in her chest stuttered, and Deborah wasn’t sure what to say, or how she could reply without losing her measured patience.

“What makes you think that Harry’s brave?” Deborah asked guardedly; she wasn’t going to correct him, Martin didn’t need to know that Harry was long gone. She was too confused at what Martin was suggesting.

Martin shrugged, unaware of the tension in his colleague’s shoulders, simply gesturing in curling loops to punctuate his explanation.

“I was just _thinking_ …that he must be brave, b-because if _I_ was married to you, being all stunning like you are in _all_ the ways…not just stunning _outside_ , but _really_ lovely as _you_ as well…I wouldn’t be able to _stand_ being away from you for so long.” Martin struggled over some words, and others dragged, but he barrelled on with his narrative; Deborah held her breath, arms stiffening, unsure of what the rippling sensation like nails scraping against her guts while moths fluttered in her chest even meant, “’Cos you’re _so_ …lovely… _I_ don’t know _how_ your husband does it, ‘c-cos _I_ couldn’t…because you’re – _look at you_.”

Martin trailed off as his hand made another sweeping motion, and he peered at a corner of the carpet, cheeks tickled pink.

Deborah wasn’t sure how to react. She flexed her fingers where they were practically wrapped around her elbows. She could appreciate that Martin was just being nice…but she couldn’t help but feel thrown as he shuffled his feet sheepishly.

“And…you felt that you needed to tell me this?” Deborah asked, her voice lacking its usual cadence; she was abruptly aware of the fact that they were standing in the hotel corridor, and that it was cold enough to prickle at her skin beneath her coat.

Martin shrugged and wafted his head about, in the way of a drunk man shaking his skull for thoughts that should be obvious to everyone. It was a very Martin gesture, and Deborah couldn’t be mad at Martin for something so benign compared to some of the things he had said to her over the year that they had known each other.

“Just so you know…” Martin slurred pleasantly, “Your husband…he doesn’t know how good he’s got it…”

Deborah bit back a scoff, her fake smile wavering; she shook her head, sweeping her hair back behind her ears.

“No, he doesn’t.” she acknowledged; without another word, Deborah moved to the hotel door and unlocked it, holding it open for Martin to stumble through in as ungainly a fashion as was possible, made worse by his attempts to walk in a straight-backed captain-like way.

Deborah smiled in good humour as Martin headed straight for his bed, dropping onto his side with a well-deserved sigh; that was good, she thought. Better to find the humour rather than focus on a single drink addled word that Martin was saying. They would laugh about it tomorrow, so long as he could remember.

She crouched by the side of the bed, tipping her head sideways so that she could address Martin properly, fingers curling on the edge of the mattress.

“Good night, Captain.” Deborah murmured, “No wandering off now; I won’t come and find you if you do.”

“Hmmm…” Martin groaned contentedly, smiling happily at her, face half concealed by the covers; then he ruined the moment by adding, “Your husband…he doesn’t know how lucky he is…at home while…you’re here with us.”

Deborah rolled her eyes.

“Tell him that would you.” She reprimanded playfully, smirking as Martin nodded raggedly.

“I will.” Martin answered with certainty, “I will tell him that.”

With that, Deborah stood, taking a moment to consider whether she should leave him there, and then deciding that he would be fine. There was something pleasurably comic about the idea of Martin and Harry facing off; Martin was no good in a fight, and Harry was the biggest pacifist she had ever met. It was a strange image…

Shaking her head and striding from the room, pulling the door shut behind her, confident that Martin would be fine on his own, Deborah began making her way across the hall to her own. She tried not to think too hard about the last twenty minutes. The effort of trying to figure out exactly how she felt about it made her feel physically ill.

Then again, it _was_ nice to hear some positive feedback every now and again. She’d leave it at that.


	12. Gdansk

**Gdansk**

If there was one thing that could be relied upon, it was the unpredictable nature of the English weather. A week ago Fitton had been victim to Spring showers and spattering sheets of rain that poured despite the almost cloudless skies. It had produced a handful of occasions where Arthur had entered the porta-cabin soaked to the skin, because he had assumed he could survive a run to the corner shop without a jacket.

This week, it seemed, they were going to endure a minor heat-wave, as the sun beat down upon the airfield, making the small metal walled room unbearable to sit in all day.

Deborah had decided to enjoy the weather while it lasted; Arthur certainly was, and even Carolyn had been caught humming a jaunty tune under her breath. Martin seemed on edge, but she assumed that the heat was giving him headaches, or something of the sort.

It was mid-week, and they were on standby for another client that was unlikely to turn up until the last day of their contract, so Deborah had hunted down some picnic blankets that she kept in the back of her cupboards in case of emergencies, and brought them into work. Once Carolyn gave them the okay, she and Arthur had set up camp on the grass outside the porta-cabin.

Having shirked her jacket hours beforehand, Deborah lay back on one of the picnic blankets, stretching her arms out either side of her head after unbuttoning the top two buttons of her shirt, which was already too tight around her chest. It didn’t make her any more comfortable, but it was less restricting than the alternative.

She sighed, closing her eyes against the scorching rays of the sun; she had spent the last day filling out as much paperwork as possible so that she could do nothing today. Carolyn had gaped, but it was worth it just so that she could have _one day_ of mindlessness. Martin had been more of a pain than usual, and Arthur never shut up, so it was nice.

“Hmmmm.” Arthur hummed contentedly, where he was laid out a few feet away, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows as he grinned at the sun, skin already browning, “You know Deborah, if we got some food, we could have an MJN picnic.”

Deborah opened her eyes and tipped her head to the side, blowing the hair from her eyes where it fell so that she could observe the steward from the side; the world seemed out of sorts, with the ground tilted sideways, Arthur’s face shone regardless.

“Are _you_ going to get the food?” she inquired pleasantly, plastering on a practiced smile, “I think that as your idea, _you_ should take responsibility for that.”

“Well I was thinking it could be a joint effort.” Arthur replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

Deborah shook her head and hoisted herself up on her elbows, smirking as Arthur frowned, slightly.

“Oh no, if you want a picnic, then you shall have to devise it yourself.” She drawled, reaching over to prod his side, but upon discovering that he was too far away, let her hand drop to the ground to prop her up, “I shall merely reap the rewards.”

At that moment, a crack signalled the opening of the porta-cabin door. Deborah shifted to glance over her shoulder, and had to blink against the harsh light of the sun, but was able to see Martin shuffling through the doorway, arms full of files, before having to settle back as she was.

She was mildly surprised to see the Captain, as though he had made excuses about sensitive skin burning in the sun, she had been sure that he just didn’t want to slack off of work with them, seeing outdoor lounging as too unprofessional.

Deborah watched with a repressed amusement as Martin wandered into the space between she and Arthur, and lowered himself until he was sitting cross legged on the grass, laying out the papers before him with his bottom lip gnawing between his teeth.

“Did you finally decide to emerge from your dreary den?” Deborah asked playfully, making sure to maintain eye contact when Martin glanced up from his work, lips pursed as if it were beneath him, but there was an air of sheepishness about him.

“I just thought that I might as well make the most of the sun while it’s out.” Martin replied, propping a file on his knees and pencilling in here and there. He was definitely avoiding playing today, Deborah thought.

She simply scoffed softly, smiling faintly and ignoring him if he was going to be so petulant; she didn’t have to be a master in translating Martin’s moods to know that he had started to feel lonely indoors, after making such a fuss of staying there to work, and now he was taking their company without admitting to it.

That was fine by her; it gave Deborah a chance to tickle him with her new game.

Since the night in New York, when Martin had delivered his slurred soliloquy, he had been on edge. It wasn’t difficult to see; he had been tight-lipped, and just a little sharper with her than he had been in recent months, snapping at her when she had thrown her feet up on the control panel the week before.

The next morning he hadn’t said a word, but Martin was hardly subtle about the sideways glances that he kept stealing; if he was regretting what he had said, it would be up to him to make it known. Deborah wasn’t going to bring it up.

On a completely unrelated note, Martin’s petulance had invoked in her the prickling impulse, that she hadn’t felt in a while, that promised to bring forth a slippery pleasure at making Martin squirm.

It was his fault really. He had put the idea in her head. If Martin was going to remark loudly on her looks, then she was going to flaunt them and watch him flush and look away and splutter; he was awfully funny when he was feeling wrong-footed.

Deborah leant back, her arms still extended behind her, supporting her weight, and tipped her head back, feeling the tips of her hair tickling her lower back. What this achieved, was to present her unbuttoned chest to the beating rays of the sun…and Martin’s line of sight.

See, she had discovered that the one thing that made Captain Crieff blush, was anything even slightly sexual. And Martin was just naughty enough that he couldn’t stop himself from looking, or using innuendo every now and again, even though he _did_ try not to stare. He was a failure as the lustless gentleman, but he did try, which was what made it so funny.

There was no doubt after New York that Martin fancied her, just a little. He probably hated himself for it, but he did. Which Deborah thought was the perfect opening for some harmless joshing.

Deborah made a show of fanning herself with her hand, and as she had expected, Martin’s gaze wandered from his work to her breasts, lingering before his eyes snapped up to hers. She quirked her eyebrow, and Martin huffed, pulling his files closer to his chest and filling out whatever form he had with a newfound violence.

Laying back with a sense of victory, Deborah’s only complaint was that Martin’s current brand of embarrassment wasn’t the spluttering bemused one of late, but the irritable one of old.

It was only a game after all; no reason to make such a fuss.

oOoOoOo

Another good day, another plane full of oddball passengers; this time, a handful of neurotic orchestra members and their instruments.

Which was probably why Carolyn and Arthur were playing with them in the flight-deck, Deborah mused. Truth be told, she was rather enjoying their list game. Perhaps it was the joy of winning time after time, although that _did_ get old. More likely it was Martin’s consternation at losing…time after time.

His mood hadn’t improved over the past few days, and Deborah might have been curious and sympathetic…if he hadn’t been taking it out of her. As it was, her game continued, and he just became more agitated.

“Uh, everyone ready?” Arthur checked, holding the game book in his hands and glancing between them, “Get set: the Seven Deadly Sins.”

While Carolyn leant against the back of her chair, Deborah scribbled down her answers swiftly on her notepad, and proceeded to spend the next minute or so watching Martin clasp at his own notepad, making the paper crinkle as he hunched over, writing furiously. She couldn’t help teasing him, but rather than laughing it off like he usually would, Martin snapped at her.

He was obviously _very_ into the game, she assumed. It was almost endearing…in the sense that it only made her want to tease him even more.

“Okay, let’s see.” Arthur announced, dropping his hand like a man at the _start_ of a race, and leaning across the gap between the seats to take Deborah’s pad from her, “Um, yeah, Deborah got ’em all.”

Martin sighed dejectedly, slumping sideways in his seat and handing Arthur his own pad, which he tucked underneath Carolyn’s for the moment. Deborah raised her eyebrows at Martin, smirking deliciously to get a reaction. She wasn’t disappointed, as Martin scowled and turned his sights over the top of his seat.

Arthur dutifully checked the scores, debating with Carolyn over the difference between wrath and anger. Deborah chipped in helpfully, trying to catch Martin’s eye and prompt a smile, but to little avail.

“Sorry, Carolyn, we have to go by the book, I’m afraid, so I come second.” Martin stated primly; Deborah supposed that his foul mood might just be a phase in which he was feeling once again insecure as Captain. If so, there was little she could do; perhaps he might cheer up if she kept prodding.

“Yeah, looks like it, Skip. Uh, let me just check …” Arthur muttered as he scanned Martin’s list; then he frowned in sympathy, handing back the notepad, “Oh, bad luck. You’ve got Lust down twice.”

“Oh, for …” Martin huffed, dropping the pad onto his knee and running his chin with his hand, looking through the front window in favour of facing his crew.

Deborah couldn’t resist the opportunity.

“ _Naughty_ Captain Crieff!” she drawled, winking flutteringly when Martin turned back to her; he flushed, but just scowled even harder, making his cheeks wrinkle with the effort, “Which one did he miss out?”

“Uh, Pride.” Arthur answered, having to peer down at the book in his hands.

“Irony upon ironies.” Deborah purred, smirking as Martin straightened himself up indignantly, pushing his hat down on his head and addressing Arthur, ignoring her completely.

“Let’s do another. I’m gonna win this one.” He declared, brimming with self-righteous confidence.

There was a brief discussion, in which Deborah was told in no uncertain terms that she would _not_ be betting on their games, and that Arthur was not to bet _anything at all_ , and then Carolyn allowed them to continue. Deborah smarted a bit at the implication of distrust, but she merely rolled her eyes and accepted without further comment.

Arthur rifled through his book, and his eyes lit up as he found a prompt that interested him.

“Um …. okay, here’s one. On your marks, get set: the Seven Dwarves.” He declared, acting the part of umpire to his utmost best, hand motions and all, looking between them as if something exciting were actually occurring.

As the sound of scribbling filled the flight-deck, merging with the whirring and beeping that always formed the background hum, Deborah settled back in her seat, turned so that faced Martin.

In a moment of impulse, she decided that she could tease just a little more; Martin wasn’t quite playing along as he usually would, and it was becoming annoying.

“ _Martin…_ ” Deborah drawled as seductively as possible, making sure to make her gaze as burning as she could, “Don’t forget _Lusty._ ”

With that she traced the tip of her toes along his lower leg, as one might under the table during a successful date. It was swift and brief, and she didn’t move above his knee, but it was enough that Martin physically jumped in his seat.

“Shut up!” Martin hissed through his teeth, clearing his throat awkwardly, bringing his curled hand to his chest. His eyes flickered to hers, and she was pleased to see that his cheeks were scarlet; he gave her a cursory scan, and then looked pointedly away.

He was still angry. It wasn’t quite what she had wanted, but it was somewhat enjoyable.

oOoOoOo

Deborah stormed into the Galley, pushing aside the curtain with a jangle and hopping onto the sideboard without further ado, holding her arms over her chest and squaring her jaw as she glared at the dulled corner of one of the cabinets.

Carolyn and Arthur were already in there, probably hiding from their difficult charges, and at the abrupt entrance, they both fell silent and turned to stare at her with eerily similar expressions of confusion.

“Are you alright Deborah?” Arthur inquired cautiously, drying his hands on the tea-towel that he held, and dropping it on the microwave.

“I’m fine.” Deborah stated plainly, in no mood for chatting; she was fuming, completely livid. And insulted, and _hurt_. She had thought that they were past all of the sharp digs and cruelty, but apparently not.

“Oh, pull the other one Deborah.” Carolyn retorted, leaning back against the counter and fixing her with a glare that couldn’t be argued with, “You’ve got a face on like someone stole your favourite plush toy.”

Deborah shook her head, refusing to meet Carolyn’s gaze, but then she couldn’t find the energy.

“Martin’s being an arse again.” She muttered, letting her shoulders sag as she slumped, folding her arms over her lap.

“Oh, for god’s sake, I thought you two were friends now.” Carolyn snapped, throwing her hands in the air demonstratively.

“Friends don’t bring up each other’s failing marriages for the sake of cheap shots.”  Deborah replied bitterly; she knew that she was pouting but couldn’t be bothered to stop. The Galley counter was uncomfortable, and it was only making her mood even fouler.

Carolyn, to her credit, did not mention that her marriage had _already_ failed in front of Arthur, but instead rolled her eyes and sighed, placing her palm over her forehead before shrugging in despair.

“Well sort it out.” She instructed, stepping towards the cabin, “This flight’s miserable enough as it is without the pilots making it worse. I’m about ready to kill that bassoonist.”

Once Carolyn had disappeared, Deborah watched from the corner of her eyes as Arthur played with his fingers for a bit, and then cleared his throat. She looked up, raising an eyebrow, demanding that he continue or don’t speak at all.

“I know Skip has been a bit…down…at the moment, but you _have_ been messing with him a lot more recently.” Arthur reasoned, rubbing at his wrists as if worried about her reaction, “Maybe he’s just had enough.”

“I’m only playing.” Deborah snapped, regretting it instantly but not wanting to take it back; it wasn’t _her_ fault that Martin was reverting to his horrible self, “I don’t remember asking _your_ opinion.”

“Okay, fine.” Arthur raised his hands in surrender, “I’m only trying to help.”

“Well how about you help _Skip_ win a bet for once.” Deborah suggested darkly, wrapping her arms roughly around her chest, “Perhaps the two of you together might find yourselves partially capable.”

Arthur simply nodded, picking up on her temper, well versed in her various moods; he left the Galley, stopping only to pat her distractedly on the shoulder, in what she supposed was supposed to be comforting, but lost its vigour.

Deborah inhaled and exhaled a few times, reigning in her feelings. It wasn’t her fault that Martin was in a bad mood. It wasn’t her fault that he was taking her games the wrong way. Detachedly, she decided that it was probably best to drop her most recent game; it wasn’t working anyway.

She’d give it a few more minutes, then she’d go back to the flight-deck.

oOoOoOo

The plane was landed, and Martin was grinning faintly to himself, having just announced the names of the seven dwarfs over the intercom, triggering some sort of bassoon meltdown in the cabin. That was alright; Carolyn would deal with that.

Deborah ran her hands over one control, focusing on the sensation of the metal against her palm as she tried to process the fount of new information.

When she had been betting higher and higher stakes, it _had_ been to wind Martin up, to make him suffer, just a little bit. Unlike Martin though, she wasn’t cruel, and she had never intended to take three months’ salary from him. That was why she had offered an amnesty on discussing her marital problems.

It was a clever ploy to make Martin realise some humility, and bring her out on top.

Now though…now she was stewing somewhere between residual irritation and hurt, and an uncomfortable degree of sympathy and concern. Martin wasn’t getting paid – at all.

That explained a lot actually.

Every now and then for the last stretch of the flight, Deborah had been sneaking glances at him, trying to reassert some sort of idea of Martin in her head, trying to see something she hadn’t seen before in the set of his jaw, his freckled cheeks, and light flush.

Her mind was whirring, and it was as if a forbidden conflict was taking place, and against all odds…the part of her that _liked_ Martin was winning. In fact, the fondness was beginning to tickle somewhere near her chest again.

The silly, _ridiculous_ man wasn’t even getting paid for being there. He was actually there because he _loved_ flying.

She had known that he did; the seven tries at his licence and his admitting that he had ‘always’ wanted to be a pilot were evidence enough.

But Martin loved flying _so much_ that he was doing it for free.

As much as Deborah wanted to dislike his attitude, his demeanour, his arrogance, every annoying quirk (and she could only claim to dislike them when she was already in a rut where he was concerned)…she couldn’t help that tiny fluttering feeling that she absolutely didn’t want to be admiration.

Hell, she’d wanted to do about thirty things over the course of her life, but she had never been that devoted to anything; not even her marriages.

If anything, and she was aware how stupid the idea sounded in her head, this made Martin even more _real_. As if he had morphed from the prissy Captain to a tangible _person_ that she spent her days with, rather than the personification of everything that made her want to avoid working all together.

That kind of perseverance and determination was…very Martin.

If Deborah had to choose the most unfair thing to happen that day, it wouldn’t be Martin’s rudeness, or her disdain, it would be the fact that even after all of that, she had come through the day liking him even more.

Bloody Martin Crieff.

As Martin was adjusting his uniform, ready to see the guests off, Deborah bit her lip, then sat back and addressed him quickly, feigning nonchalance.

“So…Martin…if you’re not getting paid to be here,” she inquired, tracing her finger along the edge of the arm of her seat, “Does that mean that you actually… _like_ it here, with us? I mean, I know that you like flying, et cetera, but…to settle for MJN of all places.”

Martin sat back, mirroring her position, and nodded slowly, gazing into the distance in thought.

“Well, yes…I like it here. I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t like a paying job if I was offered it-” he explained, sounding as if he were trying to temper something that he knew might not be taken well.

“So you’d leave if you got another offer?” Deborah interjected; the idea of Martin leaving wasn’t a pleasant one, but she was also ready to leap on the suggestion, to tell him where to stick his platitudes if that were the case.

“Well, that’s not going to happen is it.” Martin remarked bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, and then sighing with a long held shrug, “Besides…” he continued, offering her a small smile, “If I get to fly planes then…it’s worth all the trouble, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Deborah replied sharply, genuinely curious.

Martin’s eyes narrowed, and his forehead crinkled; he turned ever so slightly so that he could look at her better, and then his expression clouded over as if he suddenly realised something that only he was privy to. A small, coy smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re not so bad.” He answered, as if that were enough.

Deborah couldn’t answer straight away; she nodded stiltedly, tightening her hold on the arm of her seat. Rather than focus on the trickling sensation from her nose to her chest, like feather-light fingertips, she smirked her practiced smirk and stiffened a fraction.

The day wasn’t over yet.

“Not _stunning?”_ she asked lightly, shrugging one shoulder in a show of nonchalance.

Martin’s face flushed scarlet, and his eyes widened in shock. She _knew_ he had remembered, Deborah thought with a flash of victory.

Martin opened and closed his mouth, pointing his finger demonstratively at her. But unlike recently, when he would snap and growl, Martin retained the good-natured embarrassment that he had developed in recent months.

“S-shut up!” he instructed firmly, but he was forcing down a mortified smile, and trying to avoid eye contact, turning back to the front window and fiddling with his epaulets.

Deborah’s smirk slipped into a grin, and she allowed his retreat. They didn’t need to talk about it. With a sigh, she accepted that things were as they were….and reluctantly allowed her mind to wander back to its musings on Martin’s situation while he shuffled about the flight-deck, preparing to leave.

It was like seeing him in a new light…but Martin was still unremarkably, remarkably Martin.


	13. Ipswich

**Ipswich**

For once, Deborah wished that Carolyn or Arthur would make an appearance and cause some sort of a distraction. But no, Carolyn had swept her son away on some sort of errand, leaving her alone with Martin in the middle of one of his neurotic breakdowns.

She didn’t understand why they needed to take another SEP course in the first place; it wasn’t as if the CAA had shown any kind of interest in MJN for years. Deborah was sure that with her exceptionally positive luck, and Martin’s disastrous tendencies, the company had settled into an equilibrium in which they were never visited by the prying eyes of the outside world.

So there was no need to worry. Martin however was of the opposite mind, and no matter how many times Deborah told him that there was nothing to worry about, he just became more intensely focused on whichever area of aerodynamics that he was holding at the time.

It was difficult to be truly annoyed with him though, especially as his fraught anxiety seemed to extend to all their benefits; Martin had expressed such extreme concern over _her_ future if she didn’t pass the safety exam that all she could do was pat him on the elbow and nod in the hopes of appeasing him.

Deborah now sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, propped up on the cushions from its top, inspecting her nails as she listened to Martin’s reedy drone and watched him move frantically from one subject to the next. She could have wandered off and let him be, but she supposed that he needed the company for his own peace of mind, and it wasn’t as if she’d be happier on her own.

Martin had discovered hours ago that his books wouldn’t fit on his desk, so now he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the porta-cabin, every flight manual and operations manual that he could find lying open in a semi-circle around him, like some sort of overzealous satanic ritual.

His jacket had been slung over the back of his chair but he hadn’t pulled up his shirtsleeves; his ginger hair was ruffled from where he had been running his hands through it, and Deborah had entertained herself briefly by watching the spackled light from the small window dance across the strands, while he gnawed at his bottom lip with a vehemence.

She wouldn’t have said that she was bored, per say, but Deborah found that though she was mildly content, Martin was far more fun when they were paying each other equal amounts of attention, rather than talking at each other in the hope of solidifying information that the other didn’t care for.

“Deborah!”

Deborah looked up from her nails, to the blue eyes of Martin Crieff, staring expectantly at her. She realised belatedly that his last murmurs must have been directed at her.

“Yes Martin?” Deborah replied, adopting the tone of an obedient squaddie. Martin rolled his eyes, but remained hunched over, manual in his lap.

“What are you going to do if you fail these tests?” Martin demanded, as if he genuinely believed that it was a possibility. His stare was unwavering, and Deborah mused that he was scanning her expression for any sign that she was fearing for her job.

“I’m not going to fail, Martin.” Deborah assured him calmly, exhaling loudly and slouching further back into the sofa, “And neither are you.”

She didn’t know why she had thought that that would set his mind at rest. Martin bit down harder on his lip and shook his head, glaring down at his manual before flicking his eyes back up to her.

“We might do.” He stated seriously, in a raised whisper, fingers curling around the book, “That’s why we need to _revise_.”

With a pointed groan, Deborah rolled her eyes and sat forward, crossing her arms over her knees after shoving her hair behind her ears as it flopped over her face. No only a foot or so from Martin’s own face, she was able to address him with the utmost sincerity, and a little bit of exasperation.

“ _Martin_ , you _know_ all of this. You know the manuals inside out.” Deborah explained slowly, making sure to hold his gaze even as he huffed, “There is no way at all that you could do badly.”

“But what if I’m sat there and my mind goes blank – or if they ask something that they came up with the night before?” Martin insisted, sounding more and more like a man suspecting a conspiracy had been formed around him; Deborah couldn’t help the wan smirk that settled about her lips, “What then, hmmm?”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this Martin – that _will not_ happen.” Deborah stressed; she dropped her head into her hands, elbows propped on her knees; it lessened the gap between the two of them, and made it so that she had to tilt her head back ever so slightly to meet Martin’s gaze, “Now can we please leave this and do something else?”

“Anyone would think you _wanted_ to lose your job.” Martin muttered, exhaling through his nose, but snapping the manual closed and dropping it to the floor nonetheless; he mirrored Deborah’s posture, resting his arms on his legs, one hand propping up his head while the other fiddled with the pages of another book.

“ _Neither_ of us are losing our jobs.” Deborah sighed dully; she simply raised an eyebrow at Martin’s tight-lipped nod of acknowledgement.

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter to you if _I_ did.” He retorted, shrugged carelessly, although Deborah could practically _feel_ the petulance beginning to prickle from his pores, “It’s not like you’d miss out.”

Deciding that it was better to nip the issue in the bud, and feeling just a little insulted that even after _everything_ that they had struggled through, Martin still had such a low opinion of her. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that it was low self-esteem; it was purely and simply an innate dislike that wouldn’t fade, no matter how much Martin was coming to trust her.

“I can assure you Martin, the very last thing that I want is for you to stop working here.” Deborah responded tautly to his accusation; she watched his face, and was comforted just a fraction by the slight widening of his eyes, and the pleasantly surprised smile.

“Really?” Martin inquired, aiming for nonchalance, but missing the mark completely as his eyes focusing in on the book that he was fiddling with rather than meeting her gaze; Deborah couldn’t repress a pleased smirk, or the strange, yet unnervingly frequent, flutter of warmth somewhere near her chest.

“ _Really_ ,” she drawled, enjoying the light blush that danced across Martin’s cheeks; she sat back, holding her arms over her head and stretching her back much like a cat would, sighing a yawn as she did so, “I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

As opened his mouth, then closed it, and nodded stiltedly in touched acknowledgement, Martin’s eyes followed her movement, lingering at the v-shaped space where her jacket met the flesh exposed by her too tight shirt.

When Deborah placed her arms back over her lap, aware of exactly what he had been doing, Martin’s mouth snapped shut and he put on a forced smile over his red cheeks, shoddily masking his embarrassment.

“Well…that’s good – you should bear that in mind so that the SEP examiners can mark us up for good…team working skills…” Martin remarked, pouting his lips when nothing else constructive came to mind.

“Team work?” Deborah repeated, “What? Should I walk arm in arm with you? Call you my _dear, darling_ Captain?”

“You _could_ mention what a fine, outstanding commanding officer I am, or-” Martin shook his head, his lips threatening to curl into a smile, as he tried to look as authoritarian as possible.

“It might be less painful to just have sex on their driveway.” Deborah remarked in an offhand manner; the last thing she would ever be caught doing was slathering compliments over Martin, no matter how well they were getting on.

Martin spluttered, eyes widening comically as he managed to choke on air; it hadn’t occurred to Deborah that her remark might have had the effect that she has wanted all her recent teases and snipes to, but the sight of Martin, sputtering, cheeks scarlet, was thrillingly perfect.

She giggled warmly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to hide that and her small smile; to her great pleasure, rather than scold her as he had been, Martin was fighting a sort of struggling smile that wobbled under the weight of his shock. _Finally_ – all she had wanted was for him to be a good sport and have some fun.

“They, uh…, they-” Martin started, but had to cut himself off, straighten his back and steady himself, barely meeting her eyes despite the wry smile, “Well…it would definitely get their attention.”

Deborah didn’t lower her hand, hiding her widening grin unsuccessfully as Martin’s blue eyes met hers, and the day _finally_ seemed to brighten just a fraction.

oOoOoOo

“Now, I don’t know if either of you have ever flown with anyone like that …” Dr Duncan was an irritating, but overall, bearable man, but Deborah knew the moment that those words left his mouth that Martin, Martin who could recite the ‘6 Deadly Is’ with an air of frantic superiority, would grasp the opportunity to lord it over her.

She wouldn’t hold it against him, Deborah was aware that it was only the constant observation that made him want to appear the very best, and not a sudden reversion to his previous feelings towards her.

But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t fight back when he did. Deborah had a sense that Martin rather enjoyed the challenge of bickering with her, if the wicked smirk that he sometimes got in the midst of a meaty debate was anything to go by; she couldn’t blame him, she was exactly the same.

The cause of many problems it may have been, but it was also the crux of their friendship.

“Yeah, me! I have! Yes, I definitely have.” Martin announced, laughing as if at some fantastic joke. Deborah folded her arms loosely over her chest and turned in the cheap plastic seat, crossing one leg over the other, so that she could face him properly.

“Right. Well, d-don’t name any names.” Dr Duncan instructed cautiously, obviously well versed in crew member feuds, if the grey patches in his mutton chops and moustache were anything to go by.

“Oh, no-no-no! Certainly not, no, no, no.” Martin assured him, smiling thinly and waving his hands nonchalantly; then he turned ever so slightly so that he was facing Deborah, and she could just _feel_ the ‘ _look at me, I’m winning, ha ha’_ radiating from his every breath, “Let’s, um, let’s call her Demmie.” Deborah sucked in a breath, and held her tongue, raising her eyebrows as she held back an audacious smirk, “Demmie ignores safety briefings, tech checks; he can barely be persuaded to file a flight plan. He basically thinks he’s always right.”

The cheek of the man; and he _knew_ he was pushing it, he absolutely knew, it was written all over his face. He was pushing her to see how she’d react. A tickling warmth flickered in the pit of her stomach, leeching upwards as she straightened her back and leaned in pointedly.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe Demmie _is_ always right?” Deborah inquired tensely, not sure whether she was grimacing or grinning at the challenge.

“It’s definitely occurred to Demmie!” Martin retorted, leaning in in turn, folding his arms over his own chest; his eyes never left hers, as if he were trying to stare her down, a wicked smirk pulling at his lips.

The warmth flared in her chest.

“O-kay. Great!” Dr Duncan said awkwardly, clearly unsure of what to do other than continue with his lesson, Deborah spared him only a fleeting glance before fixing Martin with a galre as fiery as his, “Well, next: Impulsivity – that’s the tendency of some pilots to panic under pressure, to do the first thing they think of just for the sake of doing something. Now, again, you may never have …”

“Actually, that does ring a little bell.” Deborah noted, watching with glee the way that Martin’s eyebrows pinched in confusion before settling in playful contempt. He was still leaning in, waiting for her.

“Oh, well – again, without naming names.” Dr Duncan instructed, his hands raised as if in fear of some sort of altercation.

“No. That would be the height of iniquity.” Deborah drawled, smirking and quirking her eyebrows at Martin, making a point; the way that he pursed his lips and continued to bore his eyes into hers made the burning sensation roar somewhere between her chest and her throat, and she leaned in demonstratively as she continued, “Well, this chap – could be literally any of the other pilots in MJN Air; let’s call him Marvin – once requested an emergency landing because his watch went off.”

“It was a new watch with a very odd alarm.” Martin insisted curtly; he wasn’t arguing for Duncan’s sake, that much was obvious.

“Oh. Have you flown with Marvin, Martin? Curious chap, isn’t he?” Deborah remarked, making sure to smirk extra darkly and even wink salaciously, thoroughly enjoying the indignant huff that he let out as he refused to lose and look away.

“Then there’s Insecurity –” Dr Duncan ploughed on, “always trying to prove he’s as good a pilot as anyone else.”

“Marvin.” Deborah answered swiftly.

“Impatience – sacrifices procedure or even safety to save time …” Duncan continued.

“Demmie.” Martin interjected, smirking and glaring defiantly at Deborah.

“… and finally Indecision – getting caught in the headlights of a problem and being unable to settle on a plan of action.” Duncan concluded; Deborah supposed he might have been glancing anxiously between them, but she didn’t take her eyes from Martin’s.

“And Marvin.” She replied, the heated sensation burning in her chest, increasing as Martin’s expression contorted and he retorted indignantly.

“I thought you said Marvin impulsively did the first thing he thought of.” Martin argued, as if she had cheated in his favourite game.

“Amazingly, he manages to combine both: doing whichever is least appropriate to the situation.” Deborah drawled, relishing the contained outrage on the Captain’s face.

The feeling in her chest was roaring, like a hand sinking through her ribs and trying to yank her forward. She was detachedly aware of how close she and Martin were, both having leaned in heatedly as they tried to one-up each other.

Martin still hadn’t taken his eyes from hers, and his chest was heaving ever so slightly, as if he had been running. Before she was truly aware of it, the only thought in her mind was the raging, fiery one telling her to lurch forward, to grab hold of the lapels of Martin’s jacket, to be as close as possible to him and…

And then realisation hit, and Deborah’s back snapped straight as she sat back hastily, trying to maintain some sort of elegance as she dropped her eyes, and then raised her head, chest fluttering still, to watch as Martin’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and he slipped the arm that she hadn’t noticed was slung across the back of the seats between them back to curl the hand into a fist and clear his throat, turning back to the instructor.

Mind racing in a hundred different directions, all leading back to one place, Deborah cursed herself inwardly. There was no reason, no damn reason to be thinking that.

She had been ignoring the enchanting sensations in her guts, the fluttering feelings, not even sparing them a moment of consideration. And now she remembered where she had felt them before…and it wasn’t good, at all.

“… Okay.” Dr Duncan placed his hands together over his lap, looking uncertain of himself, “Well, what’s good here is that we’re fostering a real openness between the two of you.”

“Yes. That is good, isn’t it?” Deborah snapped; that was the last thing she needed in that moment.

“Mmm…Well done, us!” Martin grumbled, slumping back in his plastic seat.

Well, if nothing else, at least Martin was as frustrated as she was.

oOoOoOo

Deborah spent the next hour or so putting the terrifying realisation from her mind. It wasn’t anything to worry about…not at all.

She didn’t fancy Martin. She absolutely did not. She wouldn’t deny that he was an attractive man…and one of the few people that she actually wanted to be friends with…but that was beside the point.

She had been attracted to her first husband. She had been _very_ attracted to Verity’s father, to the point that she’d have jumped into bed with Chris at a moment’s notice; then again, she had been drunk for a large part of that relationship. And she had fancied Harry at the beginning.

It wasn’t a new feeling, it was just one she had had trouble recognising.

But it meant nothing. Deborah was one hundred percent certain that whatever strange impulse she had felt regarding Martin had been purely a mixture of the joys of a well matched verbal duel, and many months of sexual neglect and frustration.

That was a reasonable excuse, and Deborah could accept that entirely, even to the point that she could enjoy the fluttering, safe in the knowledge that it was meaningless.

Unfortunately, at that particular moment, Deborah was distracted by the revelation that when soaked to the skin after a dip in the pool, Martin’s pale blue shirt turned almost entirely transparent.

Carolyn and Arthur had left to find food, as Arthur was filled with cheer from the impromptu dip in the pool, and Carolyn was fed up enough to want to just sit down and consume whatever was put in front of her.

Dry and clean, Deborah perched on one of the benches in the shared changing rooms, watching Martin as he rifled through his flight-bag for a clean shirt. He had left the wet one on, but it did nothing to hide every detail underneath.

There was a part of her that was simply admiring the slim, yet definitely present, layer of muscle, over both Martin’s chest and arms, and across his stomach, that shifted pleasantly as he bent over; however, for all the timid arousal, Deborah’s nose was crinkled, and she was more concerned as to trying to devise _how?_

For all intents and purposes, it just didn’t make sense.

Deborah rose to her feet, and sauntered nonchalantly over to the set of lockers that Martin was using as a balance, pushing his arm against them as he pulled off one shoe after the other, towel wrapped around his shoulders.

Leaning back against the steel, Deborah took one more glance, sweeping her eyes over Martin’s figure, before folding her arms over her chest.

“Martin?” she inquired, making sure to sound politely inquisitive, lest the Captain retract into his prim and proper safety shell; Martin stopped wobbling, and looked across at her, nodding and humming in recognition, no trace of distrust or suspicion, “Are those actually muscles I see before me?”

Martin looked momentarily confused, and then he glanced down at his torso, ‘ah’-ing in realisation. When he looked back up, it was with a sheepish, pale smile that seemed completely out of place considering what Deborah assumed he should have been quite proud of. Very proud of, in her opinion.

“Well, yeah…I mean, they’re nothing special – but they do…exist.” Martin explained lamely, rubbing at the back of his neck as he blushed.

“I’m intrigued as to _how_?” Deborah purred, smirking innocently.

“Oh, well – a magician never reveals his secrets.” Martin remarked, shrugging lopsidedly and pulling at the soggy wrists of his shirt. Deborah allowed herself to laugh shortly, to make him feel slightly better about whatever was bothering him, and carried on when Martin smiled and looked down at his fingers.

“Are you telling me that you acquired your physique via secret means?” Deborah drawled, leaning in ever so slightly whilst remaining against the lockers.

Martin rolled his eyes, but then a calm seemed to settle over him, and he leaned in in response.

“Why?” he asked playfully, “Do you like it?”

Deborah scoffed, but looked away all the same. Martin would be grinning, she knew it, thinking that he had won that round of whatever game she had started without he full knowledge.

“Just get changed.” She instructed, shaking her head. She heard Martin chuckling, but he began changing from his wet clothes to his dry set while she didn’t quite turn her back, but wandered a few feet away.

“You know, it would be best for everyone if you just did the pool drill.” Martin commented offhandedly, petering as he hopped about readjusting his trousers.

Deborah had any number of ways to reply to that, not all of them pleasant, but the retort at the front of her mind was tailored deliciously to make Martin splutter and blush, to reassert the status quo.

“What? So that you can see _me_ topless as well?” she drawled airily, turning back to Martin just as he bent down to tie his shoes, observing how instead of quivering, he was laughing and shaking his head, making his hair ruffle.

“I wouldn’t dare.” He remarked as he stood back up, rolling his shoulders back with a groan as they clicked back into place, “Your husband would have my head.”

That didn’t sound quite like a denial, but Deborah assumed that she was hearing things. Martin wasn’t good with his words as it was. She would have replied with a joke or a snipe, but instead she paused.

The mention of Harry brought forth a bitterness that clashed ungainly with the happiness that she was feeling spending time with Martin. It provided the perfect response, and in truth…she really wanted to be honest with Martin. She hadn’t before, but now she did. But she couldn’t, so she made it a joke.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t,” Deborah remarked jauntily, meeting Martin’s gaze pointedly, quirking an eyebrow, “It’s not like _he_ does much looking.”

Martin nodding, lips pursed in humorous understanding, then took a step towards her, his hands in his pockets as he didn’t quite meet her eye.

“Maybe I should then.” He replied tentatively, a smirk flickering on his lips as his cheeks flushed even darker.

Deborah was partially frozen in place, caught off guard by both Martin, and the return of the ever present tingling in her chest. It _sounded_ like Martin was _flirting_ , but she knew that he couldn’t be. Hell, the man was only just getting to _like_ her, flirting was hardly on the table. Not that she wanted it to be.

But he was still smiling down at her, his face open and warm, expression playful.

“Oh, shut up.” She scolded him, without any of the bite; Martin chuckled, but did as he was told, stepping up beside her with his flight-deck slung over his elbow; she began leading the way from the changing rooms, “Come on, I’m hungry.”

                                                                   oOoOoOo            

Martin was finally awake and focusing on the room around him with some sort of lucidity. That did little to dampen the claws of worry that had clambered from Deborah’s stomach to her throat, but it was a start.

The bloody man had only gone and passed out in the fuselage. No warning, just gone. It had scared the life out of her. Martin deserved the bruises that he would have as a result of her having to drag someone heavier than her from a metal shell.

The group had reconvened in the lounge area of the test centre, and between them, they had propped Martin up on a chair in the far corner of the room, away from where Mr Sargent was scolding the rest of them.

Deborah had clambered into the seat beside him, checking his forehead with the back of his hand and making sure that when he awoke groggily, an open bottle of water was thrust into one of his hands, and the other was clasped in hers.

She still hadn’t let go, but Martin’s fingers wrapped around hers steadily, giving her no reason to.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Deborah whispered, keeping her voice down for his sake, and so that Carolyn wouldn’t pick up on her worry, “I mean, absolutely sure? Drink some more water.”

Martin rolled his eyes, but brought the plastic bottle to his lips, taking a sip while glaring at her as if to say ‘ _look, I’m doing it, now stop nagging’_. When he lowered it, he squeezed her hand gently.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Martin muttered, eyeing her warily; she was aware that it was probably a disconcerting image, her knelt on the adjoining seat, leaning partially over the Captain, one hand clutching his for reassurance while the other rested on the elbow of the same arm, “Are _you_ alright?”

“Yes of course I am.” Deborah hissed in exasperation; she had no idea what he was getting at, but it was irritating to say the least. Martin simply cocked his head to the side and crinkled his forehead.

“It’s just you seem…” Martin trailed off as he pondered for the right word, “You seem a bit…worried is all.”

“Worried?” Deborah demanded, remembering at the last moment to keep her voice down; she glared at Martin, but in his groggy state, he didn’t quaver, “Martin – you just keeled over! I had no _idea_ what was wrong – you could have dropped _dead_ for all I knew!”

She realised that she was gripping his hand too tightly, and reflexively released the tension in her joints; she didn’t pull away, and couldn’t have, as Martin’s fingers flexed, and then curled back around hers.

“Oh…well…I didn’t know you cared.” Martin remarked quietly, offering a little, comforting smile. It achieved nothing, save to reignite a flare of indignation in Deborah, and she scowled at him furiously.

“Of course I care!” she snapped, aware that her lips were trembling with anger, “I’d be _devastated_ if anything happened to you. How could you think otherwise?”

Martin glanced guiltily down at the bottle in his hands.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said hastily, “that was…uh…that was silly of me – to think so, I mean.”

“Yes it was.” Deborah stated plaintively; deciding that he was alright after all, Deborah slid her legs from underneath her and slumped back in her chair, turning away from Martin.

She stayed just close enough that her arm pressed against his, so that she could help if anything went wrong, and he still had a hold of her hand. Martin was now playing with each finger in turn between his, apparently unconsciously, as when she glanced over, he was watching Carolyn in deep conversation with Dr Duncan.

“Do you have any idea how to fix that?” Martin asked, nodding towards the exhausted pair across the room.

Deborah had only been listening in part to what was being said, but she had heard enough that the answer to all their problems seemed simple. Readjusting her usual, self-satisfied smirk, Deborah aimed it at Martin and sighed dramatically.

“I’ve been tossing about a few ideas,” she drawled, “perhaps one of those might come in handy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Ipswich so much, it's one of my favourite episodes. Please do enjoy this as much as I loved writing it


	14. Interlude 5

**Interlude 5**

_GERTI had been in the air for hours. They’d left Fitton to go to Newcastle, and it was taking a long time. The plane kept sort of…rocking, but that was fine. Deborah remembered Carolyn telling her about it last week. So the rocking was fine._

_She wasn’t sure where Martin was, but Arthur was in the Captain’s seat, feet up, while Deborah fiddled with the dials. If she adjusted them just so, they could fly steady near enough to the ground that they could see individual houses. It only made sense; all the other planes were doing it._

_“Where’s Martin?” Deborah inquired, turning her head to peer questioningly at Arthur, who was flicking through one of the flight manuals. It was a new manual, four times as thick as the usual. Deborah mused that Martin would like it._

_“He just popped down to the Costa to get some tea.” Arthur replied, chewing on the end of his pen. He was scribbling something on the pages. Deborah could see the underlined bits even though she was on the other side of the cabin._

_“But we’re in flight.” Deborah retorted, narrowing her eyes at the steward, who shook his head and pursed his lips._

_“No we’re not, we’re on the ground.” Arthur told her, as if talking to a small child. Just as promised, when Deborah glanced around, they were indeed on the ground, and through the front window she could see the squarest airfield that she had ever seen._

_Never mind._

_“Well when’s he coming back?” she asked, sighing heavily and slumping back in her chair; she shot Arthur a pointed glare, “You’re sat in his chair.”_

_“Yeah, Mum said I was Captain while he’s gone.” Arthur remarked, grinning bemusedly, but paying her far too little attention for her to be pleased with._

_Deborah groaned, but closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. It was too uncomfortable, not squishy like she had been forcing it to be, by kneading the padded bits every now and again._

_“Oh, there he is.” Arthur stated plainly. Deborah opened her eyes, and glanced at Arthur, who simply nodded into the bustle of the airport. There were so many people, and they were moving so fast._

_She sat up straighter in the metal rimmed chair, ignoring the buzzing from the arrivals screen, and peered into the crowd. A tap on her shoulder made her spin around, gripping the back of the seat with the lengths of her arms._

_Deborah inhaled sharply as Harry smiled shyly down at her. She rose to her feet in an instant, glaring at her ex-husband as he ran a bashful hand through his hair._

_“What do you think you’re doing here?” Deborah demanded, shouting despite herself. Harry blushed and shrugged._

_“I flew here,” he explained, “I thought you’d like it.”_

_“Why would you ever think that I’d like it?” Deborah retorted, throwing her arms to her sides in exasperation, “You’re not even allowed to be at the airport for the pilots!”_

_“I know, I know!” Harry insisted, raising his hands in surrender and stepping forward, coming to a stop just a foot from her, gazing down at her with imploring eyes, “But I love you, so, so much, and I just want one last kiss, or one hug, just one more, even if you don’t want me back.”_

_Deborah exhaled raggedly, pushing her hand against her eyes. It was a good thing the crowd had gone quiet, she didn’t think she could stand it if all those people had been watching and whispering things about her._

_“Fine…just one hug…okay…” she conceded, opening her arms as Harry beamed, slipping his arms around her waist without further ado. It wasn’t horrible; Deborah squeezed her eyes shut. She just needed to be held for a while, rocked back and forth._

_The arms around her curled around her back, stroking circles in the dip of her spine while the other stroked through her hair. Deborah turned her head so that he face was pressed into the curve between his shoulder and his neck._

_Sighing and lifting her head to peer up at the freckled face gazing down at her, Deborah tightened her grip on Martin’s shoulders._

_“I could have sworn I was talking to Harry.” She murmured, peering around the porta-cabin._

_Martin scoffed briefly, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion._

_“No, just me.” He assured her, his fingers continuing to tangle in her hair, “He’s long gone, you don’t need him.”_

_“Hmmm…alright then…” Deborah hummed, hugging closer to Martin, letting her chest press against his; he was such a good hugger, it was so nice, she didn’t want to let go at all. And he was looking especially nice today, hair brushed back, cheeks rosy and eyes confident. And he was gazing down at her so warmly._

_“Hmmm…” Martin hummed in response, not quite smirking, the smile was too nice._

_Deborah didn’t move as he swept the hand in her hair down to her face, and pushed the loose strands behind her ear, returning to cup her cheek. It was nice. She wondered briefly what Martin was doing, then was filled with a tingling excitement of lovely anticipation._

_Martin leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, lightly, then again, then again for longer, and all that Deborah could concentrate on was the sensation of his lips, soft against hers, his cheeks rubbing against hers, and the hands, one at the back of her neck, the other still curling around her waist._

_All she wanted was to lurch forward, to have him more, to have him completely, for Martin to have her completely, be as close as possible. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling them taut and wonderfully together._

_She didn’t know how, but her back was being pressed into the sofa, and Martin was pressed on top of her, on hand stroking and holding down her torso, leaving infuriatingly fantastic prickles in its wake, while the other slid from her calf to her thigh, pulling her as close to him as humanly possible._

_Deborah’s lips never left Martin, and everything was moving in such vivid, tangential colours and feelings that she wasn’t entirely sure of time of place, but god Martin was holding her so tightly, and she refused to release her grip on his back, fingers curling in his shirt._

Then it was completely dark, and Deborah’s flesh was cold, tickled only by an imaginary feather light breeze that faded in the patterns of her mind’s previous trails. For a moment she was completely disorientated, conscious enough to know that the clumping fabric in her hands was her own duvet, but taking a few seconds to connect that fact with her own bedroom.

Even then, her mind was blank, and she couldn’t quite work out why she was breathing so heavily…or felt so…

Deborah thrust a hand through her hair, which was astoundingly knotted despite the fact that the red numbers to her right said she had only been asleep a few hours.

Then images came flooding back to her. Most of it was garbled, techni-coloured nonsense with a hint of sepia and airports, but there was one thing that stuck out in clear, high definition, sounds and smells and tastes and all…

Deborah felt her cheeks burn, and knew that a fount of blood had just rushed into them. She had never been more relieved to be at home and not an overnight job. Both hands flew to her face, and she ran them from her eyes to her cheeks, trying to force the images from her mind with pure aggression.

She really needed to sort her life out.

At least enough that her subconscious had something other than _Martin Crieff_ of all people to fantasise about.

oOoOoOo

When she entered the porta-cabin later that day, it was half an hour late, with no intention of apologising. If today was another one of those days where she had to up the number of years that she had been on the earth, then she was damn well going to take a morning to bemoan that fact.

Ignoring her lateness would be Carolyn’s birthday gift. Rather than scolding her on entrance, Carolyn simply nodded and rolled her eyes, flinging an expenses card across the desk for her to receive. _Her_ desk, Deborah noted; if she didn’t know better, she’d have said that the woman was fond of her unique organisational system.

Deborah accepted the offering with a charming smile; excellent, she could buy herself a decent dinner in Greece that evening, and wouldn’t have to shell out of her own pockets. She might even take Martin with her if he was good; better that than sit on her own in a strange restaurant, and besides, it might be nice.

Across the room, using Martin’s desk, was Arthur, shooting her furtive glances as he placed and grabbed what looked like cardboard tubes and scraps of paper. It didn’t bear thinking about, but then again, Deborah was never one to shun curiosity.

Deborah wandered around her own desk and sidled to Carolyn’s side as she dropped her coat and bag, that was falling to pieces, onto its top.

“Where’s Martin?” she inquired absentmindedly, as she tried to work out what Arthur was up to. He had his sneaky face on, which was never a good sign.

“He’s filing the flight plan and preparing GERTI for the trip to Greece.” Carolyn informed her, making no effort to get up despite the hints that Deborah was sending her, nonchalant nudges on the wheelie chair included.

“Ah.” Deborah sighed; leaving Carolyn to her own devices, Deborah strode across the room to address Arthur across Martin’s desk, placing both hands on the top to support her weight as Arthur hurriedly bent down, retrieving something from the floor and holding it behind his back as he rose, “Arthur, dare I ask what you’re up to?”

Arthur grinned, and then whipped his hands from behind his back, presenting a colourful and oddly wrapped lump, copious amounts of tape reflecting the light from its ridges.

“Ta da!” he announced, extending his hands either side of the gift. Deborah nodded and smiled appreciatively, hoping that she didn’t look as baffled as she thought that she did.

“You didn’t have to do that Arthur.” Deborah told him, picking up the object regardless, and ignoring his lopsided shrug in favour of shaking the package. One never knew what Arthur might pull from his sleeves, but this time, his surprise seemed benign; light and clunky, but benign.

“Of course I did, it’s your birthday!” Arthur insisted, leaning across the desk and staring in anticipation, gripping the edge with the tips of his fingers as if some great event were about to unfold.

Deborah raised an eyebrow, but said no more. She held the gift up to the light streaming in through the window, and when that revealed nothing, she gave in to temptation and pulled delicately at the paper, making sure to send Arthur pointedly suspicious stares every few seconds, just to see him squirm in anticipation.

To her pleasant surprise, wrapped and trapped in amongst the paper was a bag, new and sturdy and a deep shade of purple. She had been complaining for months about the state of her current one, about how she kept having to stitch up the inside, and apparently Arthur had listened.

“Thank you Arthur, this is lovely.” Deborah said honestly; placing the bag down, she walked around the desk and opened her arms, allowing him to pull her into a brief hug, before releasing her.

“Aw, it’s nothing really.” Arthur remarked, taking one of the cardboard tubes, which Deborah now assumed were the carcases of his efforts, and turning it between his hands for the sake of nonchalance; then he added with a smile signalling its importance, “And it’s purple – your favourite colour.”

“That it is,” Deborah replied, than thinking that she didn’t give Arthur enough credit, well, ever, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Arthur let the words pop from his lips; as Deborah began to walk away, she felt the tip of the tube in his hands ‘boop’ on the top of her head, and when she spun around, Arthur was swaying it behind his back, attempting to look innocent, and failing entirely.

Without a second thought, Deborah leant across the desk to grab another cardboard tube, and despite Arthur’s efforts to retreat, she jabbed him in the ribs, smirking in triumph as he yelped in offence.

Of course, Arthur jabbed back, and before she was entirely sure how it had happened, the two of them were treacherously close to toppling over Martin’s’ desk, and Arthur had managed to pin both of her arms to her chest, while her wrist still snapped violently up and down, making the tube in her hand thwack against his cheek as he scrunched up his eyes against the onslaught.

It wasn’t how she had expected to spend the morning, but she supposed that they were both laughing to an extent, so she couldn’t complain.

The clearing of a throat was enough to make them freeze, but not release, and Deborah quirked an innocent eyebrow at Carolyn, who was eyeing them with unhidden despair.

“Yes Carolyn?” Deborah inquired nonchalantly. Carolyn rolled her eyes, and fixed her with her most exasperated glare.

“I’m am about to say things that no one should ever have to say to people over the age of eight.” Carolyn remarked in a measured tone, pacing herself, “Arthur, please remember that Deborah is half your size, and likely to snap if you are too rough with her.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes to the heavens, as Arthur took his arms from around Deborah and rubbed the back of his neck, apologising guiltily, “And Deborah, as much as I respect your right to abuse your body as you wish, a broken pilot is no pilot at all.”

Deborah widened her eyes dramatically, but threw the tube to Arthur nonetheless, watching just long enough for it to bounce off of his upper arm, and for him to scramble on the floor to retrieve it.

With little else to do, she decided to go and find Martin. Surely it didn’t take long to run all of the errands that he had set himself. If Deborah was honest with herself, she was a little put out by the fact that he had yet to lavish upon her the minimal amount of attention expected of the day, as even Carolyn had managed to bat an eyelid.

oOoOoOo

Martin it seemed, had decided to catch some moments of peace in the flight-deck, a book in his hands. When Deborah pushed the door open, and he heard the scraping against the grating, she watched with offended bemusement as he hastily bundled his feet down from where they had been resting atop the control panel. Dirty hypocrite, she thought fondly.

“Deborah, hello-” Martin greeted her, smiling sheepishly, his cheeks flushing as he dropped his book onto the control panel, and sat up straighter in his seat, adjusting his hat on his head; as Deborah slipping between the seats into her own, she was hit briefly by images of the dream she had had last night, but pushed them away.

The random firing of neurons held no ground next to the tangible form of her Captain, looking genuinely pleased to see her as he dug in the flight-bag by his feet.  And that was all it was, she was reassured by the settling of flutters in her chest, just a dream. She was pleased to find that she felt no different about Martin than she had the day before.

“Hello Martin.” She replied, slipping her legs through the gap in the arm of her seat so that she could face him properly, leaning against the arm so that she could peer across and see what he was doing, “Is everything ready for today or have you simply given up already?”

Martin sat up, smirking fleetingly and shrugging, as he let his bag be for a moment, turning himself just enough that he was no longer facing forward.

“No, everything’s ready.” He answered; he paused, making Deborah raise her eyebrows as he squared his arms and thinned his lips, as if preparing for something; then Martin grinned, “Happy birthday…”

A minor flurry of affection swelled in her chest, and Deborah couldn’t quite hide a pleased smile, instead folding her hands delicately over the arm of her seat as Martin bent down once again to retrieve whatever he had been searching for in his bag.

“Oh, you _did_ remember,” Deborah drawled gratefully, eyeing the plain, but clearly ceremonial paper bag that Martin clutched between his fingers, pressing out the creases that had inevitably occurred, before placing it in her outstretched hands, “Thank you…” then despite her curiosity, Deborah held back from opening it and fixed Martin with a concerned look, “I hope you didn’t spend too much on me.”

There had been an unspoken agreement between them that Martin’s lack of a salary was never to be mentioned, but she couldn’t accept him wasting what he _did_ have on her. As sweet as the thought may have been, it wouldn’t have been ethical.

Martin drew his bottom lip through his teeth, but shook his head, jaw locking just a fraction as he reached out and pushed the bag further into her hands.

“No, no, it wasn’t expensive…” he muttered, and adopted a slightly rigid smile, swinging his arm a fraction in forced joviality, as he added in a louder tone, “But _sentimentally_ valuable – you know, thoughts count more than pennies…just open it.”

“Alright, alright…” Deborah conceded, rolling her eyes playfully and using her nails to pick away the tape securing the top of the bag; when the contents were revealed to her, she had to place the bag on her knees, holding it down out of sight as she met Martin’s eager gaze, unsure of whether it was affection swelling in her throat, or tears threatening to well in her eyes, “ _Martin…”_

“Do-do you like it?” Martin inquired, aiming for nonchalant, but his smile was wavering between nervous and anticipatory, as he leaned in, fiddling with his epaulets.

Deborah shook her head, unsure of how to vocalise exactly how she felt, mouth open. She peeked again at the gift, taking one of the three worn books from the bag and examining the cover.

“Where did you _find_ these?” she gasped, keeping one eye on the books as if they might disappear, and one on Martin, who was rocking even so slightly as if trying to remain unconcerned but failing to hide his pride.

“I remembered you talking about them, so I did some research and found a whole set.” Martin explained, now smiling full out, pleased with himself, relishing a job well done.

“But _I_ did some research!” Deborah insisted, placing the books on the control panel and addressing Martin, eyes wide; the gesture was so wonderfully lovely, but she couldn’t help the shards of concern, “They’re a _rare_ set, I could only find about six in the whole world, and they were _£300 each!_ Please tell me you didn’t-”

Martin raised his hand, and for once Deborah fell silent, placing her own hand over her chest in touched worry.

“I _didn’t_.” he explained firmly, holding her gaze, “I found a second hand set that was cheaper…a lot cheaper….in fact I think the original owner was glad to be shot of them so that he could fit more books on his shelves, he sold them so cheap – not to say I wouldn’t have paid more.”

“Martin, it’s okay, it’s lovely,” Deborah assured his quickly, wrapping her arms around her chest momentarily for something to focus on, and then retracting them, “It’s really shockingly sweet of you – thank you.”

Giving it little thought, Deborah sat forward and leaned over the arm of her seat, opening her own arms and tipping towards Martin. Martin obviously saw the movement, as he sat forwards and met her half way, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into an awkward hug.

The foot of space, barred by two metal bars, made it a disjointed and uncomfortable embrace, but Deborah didn’t mind, enjoying the comfort of having Martin’s arms around her, rubbing and patting distractedly at her shoulders as she pressed the side of her face against his.

It only lasted a moment, and then she pulled away, falling back into her seat and smiling a little too wide. She was aware that her cheeks were probably pink, but she was too taken aback by the effort that Martin had gone to just to make her happy.

She pulled her hand through her hair, where she assumed that Martin had messed it up, and then offered Martin a small smile, which he returned, kicking his flight-bag under his seat as banging and clattering could be heard somewhere in the cabin.

It sounded as if their client had arrived. Though Deborah would have liked more time to lounge about, she couldn’t deny that today was probably going to be a good one. And Martin had definitely earned that dinner later, courtesy of Carolyn.


	15. Johannesburg

**Johannesburg**

The airfield was dreadfully dull so early in the morning. The monotony of the sun filtering through the glass at just the wrong angle, the bite of the breeze that hadn’t warmed up yet, and the incessant chirping of birds was enough to remind Deborah why she never arrived on time.

Add to that the fact that the rest of the crew hadn’t arrived yet, and what was left was a recipe for boredom that even the interesting book that Carolyn had left on her desk wasn’t enough to keep her entertained. Instead, Deborah sprawled out on the sofa, tapping the fingers of one hand against the other wrist, listening to the click clack of her nails on the glass watch face.

Martin should arrive soon; he was endlessly routine in that aspect. It wouldn’t do to be late, and she knew that he always came into work early to get his things in order without the hassle of his colleagues to shatter the peace of the morning.

He would have to endure her this morning. The only reason Deborah had gotten out of bed so early was to get Martin on his own. Six months ago she wouldn’t have dared even mentioning what she had in mind, but Martin had grown as a person, even if it was just a fraction, and even if she did say so herself, Deborah thought that they were friends…sort of.

A clattering outside the door alerted Deborah to Martin’s impending presence. While Martin could be hear cursing under his breath at the sticking latch, Deborah sat up straight, perching on the edge of the cushions with her hands folded over her lap. He would be much more receptive if she didn’t look like she would rather be in bed.

When the door finally swung open, and Martin stepped through, coat hooked over one elbow, he was humming a jaunty tune, which trailed off as he saw Deborah. His eye widened in surprise, and his lips curled upwards at the sight; Deborah smiled pleasantly, batting her eyelashes for extra effect. Anything to win him over.

“Hello Martin!” she trilled, enjoying his bewildered expression as he shut the door behind him and hooked his coat over the hook in the corner, migrating to his desk before turning to lean against the edge, arms stretched behind him to rest on the plastic top, “How are you today? Good?”

Martin nodded slowly, still eyeing her warily, a strange smile lighting his cheeks up.

“I’m alright…” he replied, “Why are you… _here?”_

“I work here.” Deborah retorted, rolling her eyes affectionately. She watched as Martin visibly processed that, and then shook his head, pursing his lips in suspicion; she didn’t think he looked mad, per say, just curious.

“I mean, why are you here so early?” Martin reiterated, crinkling his nose in thought, “You’re _never_ here on – you’re scheming, aren’t you?”

“I’m not _scheming!”_ Deborah sighed, placing a hand over her chest in mock offence, shaking her head and allowing a few strands of hair to fall over her eyes before she blew them away; when she did, peered up at Martin through her eyelashes, making sure to gaze into his blue eyes, “I came to see _you_.”

Martin’s cheeks pinked a little, and he blinked in shock, although he cleared his throat awkwardly to cover it up.

“Really?” he asked, sounding far too pleased with himself; Deborah couldn’t find it in her heart to hold that against him. It meant that things were going as she wanted them to.

“Yes, Martin.” Deborah replied, sighing deeply “I know it’s a lot, but I need to ask you just a little, tiny little favour.”

She did her best to look apologetic and abashed, but Martin’s mouth made an ‘oh’ shape and he brought his hands up to bury into his pockets, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“Of course you do…” he groaned, his tone taking lower, harder edge that it gained with despair; he nodded pointedly at her, “What is it?”

Taking that as her cue to move, Deborah rose carefully to her feet, and being treading carelessly across the room towards him, fingers still intertwined even as she swung her arms lightly, getting just the right amount of innocent allure into her walk.

“You should know, before I tell you, that I only ask this because, of all my acquaintances, you are the one that I trust most _implicitly_.” Deborah explained, pouting slightly as she approached; Martin’s lips thinned, and his shoulders tensed, but he kept his eyes on her, peering down his nose when there was only a foot between them, “And because you are the only one with the skills-”

“You mean you want to do something on GERTI and you can’t without running it past me.” Martin retorted breaking eye contact and turning his head to glare into the corner of the porta-cabin.

“You’re _almost_ right – but don’t be like that Martin, this isn’t a _bad_ thing.” Deborah insisted; she tapped him on the shoulder, and retracted her hand hastily when he turned back and reluctantly met her gaze, “It’s my daughter’s birthday, and I thought that I could surprise her with GERTI, but you’re right – I _can’t_ do it without you…I _need_ you.”

Uncertainty began to gnaw at the edges of her psyche, but Deborah waited patiently as Martin chewed at his bottom lip, his eyes flickering up and down her as if sizing her up and deciding whether to listen to her request. He was thinking about it, which was a massive step up from when they had first met. Deborah couldn’t help the rush of affection at that knowledge.

“What would this entail?” Martin asked finally; Deborah let out a sigh of relief, curling her fingers where she held her hands between them, hanging in the air as if ready to jump into some kind of yet undetermined action.

“You don’t need to worry, I’ve got it all worked out.”  Deborah assured him, grinning at the possibility of persuading him; Martin was interested, she could tell that much from the slight cock of his head, and the searching light in his eyes as they traced her features for something she could only guess at, “It’s just us and Arthur on today’s flight, so I thought that you and I could fill the hold with boiled sweets, which I’ve already purchased, and then drop them over her party, which is at noon. She’ll love it – I know I would have.”

Martin’s forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows knitted in thought; he shook his head, shuffling his hands where they dug into his pockets.

“But we’d have to be close to the ground, and get the weight and timing calculations right…and even then, it’s a tricky manoeuvre.” He reasoned, shrugging apologetically, the corner of his lip between his teeth.

“That’s why I need _you_.” Deborah assured him, making sure to sound as imploring as possible; deciding to make doubly sure of Martin’s compliance, she realised that she would need to appeal to his ego; stepping forward an inch, Deborah placed her hands of the lapels as his jacket, and stroked through the polyester, as if adjusting his jacket for him, “Of all the people I’ve met Captain, and that is a lot of people, I’ve never met _anyone_ as talented at mathematics as _you_. If you did the calculations, I’m sure everything would be fine.”

When she tilted her head back, batting her eyelashes, fingers still brushing down the front of his jacket and wandering to readjust his tie, Deborah was pleased to see that Martin’s gaze was fixed firmly on her, and he was blushing at the compliment.

“Well…uh…” Martin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and shuffled his arms, clearing his throat awkwardly; his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he continued with as much measured pride as he could, “It definitely sounds do-able.”

“ _Excellent.”_ Deborah drawled, beaming at Martin without moving from his space, “So you’ll help me?”

“Where does your ex live?” Martin asked in substitution for a response; Deborah felt a flutter of victory in her stomach, as she knew that there was no way he would back out now. He was caught, and she wasn’t going to let him go so easily; they might actually have fun.

“Barrow-in-Furness.” She replied plainly, still smiling.

“That’s not on the way to Paris!” Martin exclaimed, eyes widening in what Deborah assumed was bemused exasperation as he threw up his hands either side of him; that was a good sign, “Carolyn will kill us.”

“Then we don’t tell her.” Deborah amended curtly, shifting her hands from Martin’s tie to rest on his shoulders, “We just make a detour to Barrow-in-Furness, and then go straight to Paris when we’re done.”

Martin shook his head, amazed, as he rubbed a hand over his face, meeting Deborah’s gaze with unrestrained amusement.

“Deborah – this is _completely_ unprofessional, and against the rules, and-” he insisted, trying to make her see where he was coming from. Deborah wouldn’t be swayed; she was certain that Martin would help her now, he just needed a push.

Friends were _supposed_ to get in trouble together, it was how it worked.

“Please Martin…” Deborah implored, in a soft tone, smiling warmly, as she squeezed his shoulders lightly, rubbing down with her thumbs; Martin paused, eyebrows scrunching in thought; he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands in the meantime, and at one point Deborah even felt them brush past her waist, “For _me_ …”

Martin groaned, squeezing his eyes closed as if it pained him.

“Fine!” he agreed, opening his eyes to meet Deborah’s wide grin, exhaling loudly as she finally let her hands slide from his shoulders, and flounced back to her own desk.

They would need to be quick, and Martin would have to work out the calculations, but Deborah was practically thrumming with anticipation. Not only would her daughter be thrilled, but she and Martin were actually going to have fun _together_ , rather than at each other’s expense.

She watched as Martin’s eyes followed her around the room; he might have his misgivings, but Deborah wasn’t going to let him back out now. It would be character building, and everything was going to be fine.

oOoOoOo

It wasn’t fine, not at all. On a more positive note, the failure of a birthday treat did appear to have worked in terms of strengthening their friendship.

Apparently the main benefit of putting together a scheme with Martin was that he would assume half of the responsibility, which meant that when it went wrong, he wouldn’t shout or criticise, he would merely turned his head at the same time that you did, meet your gaze with equally wide and guilty eyes, gnaw at his bottom lip, and decide mutually with you that it was probably best to just fly to Paris and pretend that nothing happened.

Deborah had to admit, for someone so fond of the rules, Martin could be a devious bugger when caught in a rut. Which suited her just fine.

If nothing else, they were now joined in the friendly solidarity that came with the knowledge of a monumental cock-up, and the wilful ignorance of their employer’s impending wrath. If that didn’t count as team work, she didn’t know what did.

oOoOoOo

“I disagree with your decision Martin.” Deborah announced dully; she kept her arms folded petulantly over her chest as Martin began preparing to land in Spain. The anti-icing wasn’t working, but that was hardly a problem when flying over Africa; not enough to warrant losing them a thousand pounds each over extra landing and repair fees.

The only reason she wasn’t calling Carolyn up to the flight-deck to sort him out was because she knew that Martin wasn’t doing it for the sake of disagreeing with her; he reasoned out his decision, and he simply couldn’t help being pedantically careful about every little thing.

Deborah could appreciate Martin being Martin, especially after he had shown such tremendous loyalty under Carolyn’s onslaught, sticking by her and even sniggering a little at the jokes that she slipped in. And he didn’t complain about having to find money saving tactics, he just went along with it. Martin was a good friend, but he was also a bloody pest.

“I _know_ that you disagree,” Martin replied, as if he were talking to a child; he spared her a sideways glance, but was otherwise preoccupied adjusting various dials, “But I made a command decision to land. Thank you for taking that so well.”

“I’m not taking it well, I’m complaining.” Deborah grumbled, slouching back in her seat. She turned her head to the side and rested her cheek against the cushion so that she could glare at Martin from a better angle. It made it so much easier to see his freckled cheeks and his smug little smirk.

“But you’re complaining so politely, and I thank you for that.” Martin remarked, as if he were so enjoying his little power trip; in actuality, Deborah knew that he was merely having fun with her, but it helped to pretend otherwise, lest she seem acceptant of their detour, “Good team work!”

“I swear Martin, if you being up team work one more time, we won’t make it to the ground.” Deborah drawled tersely, forcing back a reflexive smile at the one Martin shot her.

“Look, Deborah, you’ll be thanking me when the engineers tell us what’s wrong, and we find out that we could have fallen out the sky.” Martin explained prissily, “It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

Deborah hummed under her breath and rolled her eyes, rolling her shoulders back with a groan.

“You know, you’re much more fun when you’re _not_ performing the manual’s bidding word for word.” Deborah remarked, “I actually enjoyed pulling off the stunt with the sweets together, it was nice.”

“But it was exactly that, a stunt.” Martin countered, shrugging apologetically, “And it proved how things go wrong when we’re not completely professional.”

“ _You’re_ the mathematical genius – why didn’t _you_ realise the sweets would melt?” Deborah teased, quirking her eyebrow demonstratively at Martin, holding the expression until he turned his head and observed it for himself.

He chuckled, but carried on preparing them for landing without another word, save those that instructed her to perform certain actions.

oOoOoOo

Deborah’s patience was wearing thin. The airfield manager was a pain in the neck, and it had taken all her energy to speak in measured sentences, unhindered by expletives. It didn’t help that Carolyn had been chipping in from the sides for the entirety of the conversation, making her grit her teeth and grasp at any opportunity that passed her way.

Carolyn had gone ahead to tell Martin and Arthur what was happening, while Deborah had accompanied the manager to find the keys to the baggage truck. It wasn’t her best plan, but it would have to do.

As she walked back across the airfield towards GERTI, she was with a slight bemusement that Martin had shirked his jacket, and pushed his sleeves to his elbows against the heat, but was still wearing his tie around his neck like a safety line.

“Apparently I’m driving to Albacete to find the engineer.” Martin remarked uncertainly, his hand tipped against his head against the sun, that was already turning his cheeks slightly red.

Deborah flung the keys at him, and to her surprise, he caught them first time. She needed to get away from Carolyn for a while, and a few hours’ drive might do her good, especially as it would put her as far away from both mother and son, the roots of the majority of headaches she had experienced in the past few years.

“Correct, Captain.” Deborah replied jauntily, “I’ll come with you, just in case.”

“Oh no, Deborah,” Carolyn chipped in, smirking like a shark watching its favourite prey flounder, hands joined delicately at her front, “ _Arthur_ will be helping Martin. _You_ are needed here – you did bet that you could make today run smoothly under budget. There are figures to calculate.”

“But Martin’s the one that does the numbers…” Deborah swore that she didn’t whine; Carolyn merely shook her head and shrugged carelessly. Deborah turned swiftly to Martin, gazing imploringly up at him.

“I’m sorry, can’t help you.” Martin smiled a thin lipped, apologetic grimace, and started to stride towards the baggage truck, which Arthur was already eagerly perched inside, watching the proceedings with a muted curiosity.

Before he could take more than a few steps, Deborah darted forward and lightly grasped his exposed wrist in both hands, tugging him around to face her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back.

“Please don’t leave me here, she’s being insufferable.” She begged, pouting for added effect. Martin scoffed and smirked, cheeks reddening in the sun, but slipped his wrist from between her hands.

“ _Don’t leave me…”_ Deborah cried in a stage whisper, feeling suddenly betrayed, after all they had been through in the last few days, _“Take me with you!”_

Martin chuckled, the sound reverberating from his chest, and his smile stretched into a grin that he tried to batten down.

“Have fun.” He chirped, and then turned his back on her and hopped into the baggage truck, leaving Deborah standing, one hand on her hip, certain that Carolyn was mentally mocking her behind her back.

oOoOoOo

If anything good had come out of the day, it was the fact that stripped down to shorts and a white t-shirt, and covered in the remnants of a bucket of car tinted water, Deborah was actually quite cool despite the heat.

Inwardly grumbling, she wandered around GERTI and towards the steel steps, on which Carolyn was waiting for her. Martin and Arthur still weren’t back yet, and Deborah was beginning to give up hope.

There was also the slight problem created when she realised quite how dependent she had allowed herself to become on Martin’s presence. Since the moment he had left, the thoughts that had drifted through her head all followed one pattern.

Why isn’t Martin back yet? He would have these sums done in half the time, why isn’t he answering my calls and giving me the answers over the phone? This was Martin’s job, not hers. If Martin were here, _he’d_ be the one arguing with the airfield manager, and then she could sweep in while he spluttered and fix the problem. She was glad Martin wasn’t there to see her washing the bloody BMW; it wasn’t like she wasn’t down to earth enough to get her hands dirty, but Martin would never let her live it down. Or perhaps he should be here, so that she could make a show of the chore, get him to blush and splutter, that would be a fun game. Why isn’t Martin back? He should be back by now? Martin, Martin, Martin…

She never had that problem at home, but then again, Deborah supposed that Martin wasn’t a part of her home life, and therefore she didn’t notice his absence. In contrast, Martin very much defined her work life.

Which was an eye opener, if nothing else.

Carolyn smirked smugly as Deborah lowered herself onto the steel steps just below her.

“Done and dusted then?” Carolyn inquired sadistically; Deborah shot her and disgruntled huff over her shoulder, but otherwise ignored her in favour of staring at her watch and counting down the seconds and the ticking hand travelled, “Now all that hangs in the balance is whether Martin and Arthur can get the engineer here on time.”

“Twenty to five.” Deborah sighed in exasperation, pressing the heel of her hand over her eyes, “That’s definitely it, then.”

“You’ve said that every five minutes since four o’clock.” Carolyn noted dryly; she patted Deborah’s shoulder in a strange façade of soothing, though it was meant to be anything but.

“Yes! But there’s no way we can do it now, even if …” Deborah was about to give up completely, raising her hands in exhausted surrender, when from the edge of the airfield came a jaunty, cheerful song; Deborah felt her face light up, and she hopped to her feet as the baggage truck roared into view, “Oh, look!”

She had known Martin would be able to fetch the engineer without messing it up; really, she had. Deborah waited long enough for them to park the truck, and for three of them to finish their song and leap to the ground before striding to Martin’s side, lightened by an odd sense of joy at the sight of him. Arthur was still chatting to the engineer, but he was of little interest to her at that moment.

The first thing she noticed, save for the confident set of Martin’s shoulders and the redness where he had caught the sun, was the new adornment perched on the bridge of his nose. Now that was _fascinating_.

“Martin!” Deborah exulted, almost throwing her arms around him and then thinking better of it, instead grinning up at him, making no effort to hide her relief, even as she smirked, “Good lord! Maverick flies again.”

“Hello, Deborah.” Martin sighed, probably rolling his eyes behind his shades; as he continued, he placed a guiding, or herding, arm around her back and began walking pointedly, before remembering that there were things to be done first and halting, arm still in place ready to start again, “Can I suggest you save all the jokes about my shades for now and we’ll have them in a nice long stream once we get airborne.”

“Oh, but I _like_ these – this is a smashing look on you” Deborah insisted, reaching up to pluck them from his face, having to bring herself almost chest to chest with him for a fraction of a second; she only inspected them for a moment, appreciating the way his eyes narrowed and his nose crinkled at the loss, so placed the shades gently over his eyes.

“Ha ha, very funny” Martin shook his head and retorted curtly, pushing his shades further up his nose as if afraid she might not have done a good job. He retracted the arm around Deborah’s back, but she didn’t move away, focused instead on placing a hand lightly on his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t misunderstood.

“I mean it.” Deborah assured him, earning a raised eyebrow beneath the shades and a confused but flattered sway in Martin’s posture, as he placed his hands over his trouser pockets without slipping them in, “You look very _dashing_ captain, my heart is all a-stir.”

He really _did_ look rather nice, although Deborah was willing to bet that it was something about the lack of stuttering or self-consciousness that was catching her attention. It was both un-Martin-like and very Martin-ish at the same time. There was nothing wrong with being appreciative.

“Fantastic Deborah, but we’re in a hurry.” Martin replied, sounding unsure, but set upon his course of action; the arm returned to her back, a solid presence, and Deborah was herded towards where Carolyn, Arthur, and the engineer had collated, “This is Diego: a fine engineer, a useful light baritone and a man with an inexhaustible knowledge of how Spanish animals go. Diego, do your Spanish cockerel.”

“Ki-kiri-ki!” Diego obediently let out a strange noise, and Deborah was unsure how to react, settling for simply nodding politely.

Well, at least Martin had enjoyed himself while she worried herself silly here.

“Yep, that’s my favourite one.” Martin remarked swiftly; he pointed demonstratively between the plane and the truck and delivered instructions firmly and confidently, “Now, then, Diego, here’s the wing. Get to work. Arthur, park the truck.”

“Er, where?” Arthur asked, half turned as if to snap into action, half frozen waiting for orders.

“Er, well behind the plane, by that … wet car.” Martin instructed, pausing in his rush of secure movement to stare perplexed at the soggy BMW; Arthur rushed away to do as he was told, and Martin surged back into action, herding Deborah once again towards the steel steps into GERTI while waving an arm for Carolyn to follow,“You two, get on board and prepare to leave immediately!”

Carolyn complied without complaint, but on the first step Deborah whirled around and grasped at Martin’s sleeve before he could run away to do the walk-around. Martin allowed her to pull him to stand in front of her, putting at roughly the same height, half a foot from each other.

“But Martin, we’ve only got twenty minutes before they shut the Tower. He can’t possibly fix it …”  Deborah insisted, but Martin merely shook his head and placed steadying hands on both of her upper arms.

“Certainly he can. A man who can imitate a Spanish squirrel helping forty-eight men mow a meadow is capable of anything.” Martin reassured her, as if that were a legitimate argument in any discussion, “Now, come on: we have to get a move on.”

A flare of something in Deborah’s chest made her smile part-way to a smirk, as she surveyed Martin’s expression. He was being wonderfully authoritative, and it suited him rather well. Such a rush of affection could only prompt in her a fond tease, as she placed her hands softly over his elbows where his arms stretched between them.

“In other words, you feel the need – the need for speed.” Deborah suggested, grinning as Martin exhaled long and thoroughly, tipping his head to the side in exasperation, though he didn’t take his hands from her.

“Seriously, Deborah. Save them for later.” He sighed; he moved as if to slip away, but Deborah held onto his elbows, keeping them together.

“May I just say Martin, you have never sounded more like the Captain than you do now.” She drawled, adding a fluidity to her movement and voice; she tried to hold his gaze, but it was incredibly difficult to do so through his shades. It probably looked more like staring.

“I thought I just said we don’t have time.” Martin’s tone hardened, and his shoulders tensed ever so slightly; Deborah realised that he didn’t believe her, and in the same moment realised that it was very important that he _did_.

“Yes you did…” she agreed, purring the continuation of her point; it might not have been necessary, but she couldn’t help it, the flushing of his cheeks even under the sunburn reward enough, “ _Very_ commanding, giving orders like that. Wonderfully dominant, Captain Crieff.”

“Yes, well – back on the plane” Martin cleared his throat nervously, and his stance regained some of the anxious sway that it always had.

And…now you’re you again…” Deborah sighed fondly, rolling her eyes and allowing Martin to bring his arms back to his own sides, missing the weight on her arms before they had even gone; in a moment of impulse, she darted forward and framed Martin’s face with her hands, tapping the edges of the shades, “I love these shades!”

Deborah grinned playfully as Martin blushed further, pushing at the shades to make them lie just right, clearing his throat again as she retreated up the steps. Martin may be spluttering again, but she refused to feel self-conscious. There was nothing wrong with making him feel good about himself…and nothing wrong with letting him know that she…cared?

They were friends after all; Deborah felt confident saying that they had built up some sense of companionship over the last few days. Which was good; it made her feel lighter than she had in a while.

A lightness that faded once she was seated in the flight-deck, waiting for Martin to return, angsting over the inevitable loss of money that she faced. She turned hastily in her seat when the door to the flight-deck clanged open, and Martin rushed through, dropping ungainly into his seat and shoving his hat unceremoniously onto his head.

“Done.” Martin reported breathlessly, sagging and turning to look at Deborah, though he still had his shades on, making it hard to tell quite what he was thinking.

“You did the walk-round?” Deborah asked, making no efforts to hide the disbelief in her tone; she raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes!” Martin replied swiftly; his head kept twitching to the side as if he were keeping an ear out for the engineer.

“In forty-five seconds?” she retorted pleasantly; she was versed enough in Martin’s habits to know that that couldn’t be the case.

“More of a jog-around but I saw everything I needed to see.” Martin was still catching his breath, and he straightened out the lines of his shirt, smoothing out the creases with the palms of his hands.

“But your walk-rounds take days!” Deborah exclaimed, staring at the Captain with barely restrained bewilderment.

“Well, maybe I’ve gained a little faith in my instincts as a pilot.” Martin retorted tautly, in a rougher, adamant tone; he removed his shades and folded them in his hand as he fixed Deborah with a redundant glare.

“I can tell, it’s done wonders.” She replied, letting her admiration show; Deborah settled comfortably back in her seat, but couldn’t release the tension from her back, highly aware that Martin was scrutinising her from across the flight-deck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martin demanded indignantly, rapping the fingers from his free hand against the arm of his chair. Deborah was mildly insulted by the insinuation in his gaze, but the feeling didn’t stick.

“Nothing…I just hope this new confident you is here to stay…” Deborah purred, widening her eyes and smirking slightly, “I rather like him.”

“Um…thank you…” Martin shifted unconsciously, looking away from her face and fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt; Deborah counted that as a victory as Martin adopted a professional aura, “Now, how are we doing?

“Seven minutes to five. Cabin ready; pre-take-off checks done.” She reported obediently, flicking a switch to her right, “How about the anti-icing?”

“Diego’s still looking at it.” Martin remarked, leaning forward to start preparing GERTI for flight.

Deborah’s heart sank; after all their efforts, they were still going to get stuck there, and she would be a grand out of pocket. She didn’t even want to think about how Martin was going to cover that loss; the thought made a twinge of guilt alight in her gut at the reminder that she had dragged Martin into her gamble with Carolyn.

‘Trust me’ she had said; _again,_ that had borne only rotten fruits.

“Well, then, why are we bothering? There’s no way …” Deborah cursed, sagging dejectedly.

Then there was a knock on the flight-deck door, and the engineer announced his presence, and a flicker of hope ignited. Deborah sighed inwardly as Martin began talking in quick fire rounds with Diego. They were actually going to pull this off!

There was no way that things could get any worse now…


	16. Kuala Lumpur

**Kuala Lumpur**

As usual, the bar was loud and rowdy during the lunchtime flurry of activity, with everyone from the fire crew, engineering, and the grounds men…everyone save Karl from ATC flocking to the abandoned fuselage. It provided a jolly atmosphere, not an unpleasant one, however steeped in testosterone it might have been.

Deborah was couched in the corner of the bar that she had claimed as her own, and that the crews were courteous enough let her have. Normally Carolyn would be there with her, to provide some sort of conversation not centred around sports or women, and they would simply chip in from the side, keeping one eye on the activities.

It wasn’t that Deborah minded, quite the contrary. She was perfectly content to join in with such discussions; Deborah was quite adept at all things sporting and laddish conversation (a wonderfully skewed upbringing and years in a male dominated  industry would provide such a disposition). And the crew actually seemed to want her there; the novelty of having a her play one of the lads had never quite worn off, and whenever she was absent for a while, Terry or George would catch her on the airfield and invite her back.

It was a nice place to be.

However, Deborah was ever aware that she was the sort that enjoyed more intellectual pursuits; word games and literature were the tip of the iceberg, and a thrilling debate with Martin or Carolyn was easier to bear than chants and boisterous impressions in a bar. It might have been more fun had she been allowed to drink, but she supposed that some things were left alone.

And recently…recently the antics of the bar, that had bolstered her spirits when she had no desire to stay in the porta-cabin any longer than need be, during the long washing in and out of ridiculous and vile Captains, were beginning to lose their charm.

Recently she had started to feel a twinge of guilt whenever she disappeared off and left Martin and Arthur on their own. Well, Arthur could very well entertain himself, and got on splendidly with the grounds staff. Martin was another matter.

Deborah knew full well that Martin and the grounds staff were two entirely different breeds of men, and although Martin would soak up the attention should it be given, the others would be unwilling to give it.

Hell, the only reason they were so fond of _her_ was because if they closed their eyes and she had a different voice, she could easily pass for a bloke-y bloke…so long as she didn’t allow herself to become too articulate of her political views, her critical analyses of fictional matters, and her interest in her job.

Which was why she was tapping her nails against the metal bar, watching the men loudly shout over one another with a muted amusement, wondering all the while what was taking Carolyn so long.

Deborah shook her head and smirked decidedly as Dirk tried to lure her into whatever bet that they had going; something centred around who could imitate the most convincing fruit, an activity that was growing in volume.

It was a relief then when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Deborah pulled it out and answered swiftly, placing the speaker against her ear with a little more force than necessary; she removed enough from the group that she only had to cup her hand over the device to decipher the voice at the other end.

“Are you not joining me today Carolyn?” Deborah inquired curtly, inspecting her nail for something to focus on while her conversational partner remained invisible.

 _“I’m afraid you’re on your own today.”_ Carolyn informed her, having the decency to sound just a fraction apologetic.

“Oh, what a shame,” Deborah replied flippantly, letting her gaze trace over the men at the other end of the bar, “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with watching whatever competition the lads have started up – it holds the promise of entertainment I suppose.”

 _“Yes well, you have fun with your drinking buddies; lord knows they like having you around.”_ Carolyn sighed, and the eye roll was almost tangible; Deborah almost retorted that though sober now, years of drinking had taught her that drinking buddies were no ‘buddies’ at all in the real world, as liking the bar persona was a far cry from liking the person, but decided against it at the last moment, _“Anyway, that’s not why I called.”_

“Oh?” Deborah feigned surprise, “Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”

A loud cheer erupted from the group, and Deborah had to turn her back to the rest of the room, hunching her back and covering both ears with her hands.

 _“There’s a chance that Martin might stumble into the bar.”_ Carolyn explained dryly _, “I told him that if he wanted a lounge, he would have to go and find a clear space…it only occurred to me after the event that he and Arthur are bound to find the one free space we don’t want them to know about.”_

“Oh, _Carolyn_ …” Deborah groaned, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration; the idea of Martin finding her there made her stomach perform odd, uncomfortable cartwheels, not because she was afraid he might shut them down, but because suddenly the idea of him realising she had abandoned him to sit in a fake bar and entertain people that she barely communicated with on a normal day was horrible. He might even hate her again, or worse, make that terrible, lost puppy face that he was so masterful at presenting.

 _“Look, I’m sorry, but you’ve dealt with worse.”_ Carolyn remarked, not sounding sorry at all, _“Sort it out without shutting the bar, and without Martin becoming involved.”_

“Yes, sure, I’ll try-” Deborah promised unhappily; then she straightened up as another issue flew to the front of her mind, “What do you mean, _lounge_? Why does Martin think we’re getting a lounge?”

“ _The ridiculous man wants a Pilot’s Lounge-”_ Carolyn explained, tone laced with exasperation.

“But there are only two pilots.” Deborah interjected plaintively, frowning as she tried to rationalise Martin’s train of thought.

“ _I know; prepare to be terrified. Martin wants a lounge for the_ two of you _, so that you can present areas of aviation that take your interest.”_ Carolyn stated curtly, “ _I did tell him that you were unlikely to go for the idea, but he’s very eager.”_

Deborah nodded, unable to reply with any haste, before she remembered that Carolyn couldn’t see her, or know that she was processing the idea.

“So he wants a room…just for _he and I_ …so that we can talk about planes?” she repeated, waiting tensely for the response.

“ _That’s about the gist of it_.” Carolyn remarked, evidently hoping that she and Deborah could have a good laugh over it.

Except Deborah wasn’t laughing, and she wasn’t ‘terrified’, although the sluggishness in her chest told her that she probably should have been. The tender guilt that she had been feeling for abandoning Martin during her breaks returned three-fold, and she swallowed against the onslaught.

Martin just wanted to spend time with her talking about things that he liked. Because that was what friends do…wasn’t it? But rather than go about it the normal way, the man was approaching the matter as a professional, turning the event into a work related project that she would have little choice in if his plans went ahead.

And Deborah had been neglecting him…for all that she had tried to ensure that they got along, and that their relationship remained pleasant, the effort that she had been putting in had petered after her divorce (partly due to Martin’s promise to try as well).

Which was going to make it even worse when he found out that she had been spending time in the bar instead of with him. It might have been better if she had been joining in the frivolities, but she wasn’t! She almost always sat to the side and surveyed the madness, only joining in so far as conversation was concerned. No games, no personal discussions, only the occasional bets. It was pitiful.

And all that Martin would see is that she had chosen that over him.

Deborah knew that she didn’t owe him anything…but…they spent all day in close proximity, surely that counted for something?

“Look, Carolyn, I’ll deal with it,” Deborah assured her, regaining her composure and clearing her head with a light palm over her eyes, “Just don’t let on that you know about the bar.”

“ _I didn’t plan to_.” Carolyn replied, “ _Good luck.”_

With that the crackling of the speaker was replaced by the droning dial tone. Deborah slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned back to the rest of the bar.

The men were still gathered in a clumpy group at the other end of the bar, making more noise than Deborah thought was ever necessary. She wrapped her arms around her chest and closed her eyes in concentration, letting her head droop just a little.

There had to be some way to keep the grounds men happy, and to keep Martin happy. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to think about it, as another uproar of cheering filled the air, followed by a shrill demand that made Deborah’s eyes snap open, and forced her to her feet.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell’s going on in here?” Martin demanded; his cheeks were flushed with indignant confusion, and his shoulders and jaw were squared in the way that they did before Martin attempted to pull rank.

Deborah scurried as gracefully as she could across the fuselage, glad that for once, Martin was so distracted that he didn’t see her approach until she had run her fingers through her hair to make it curl away from her face, and put on a welcoming smile. She had one chance to make things alright, and it was a long shot, she appreciated that, but it was worth a shot.

Martin’s head snapped to the side when he felt her tap gently at his elbow.

“Hallo, Martin.” Deborah drawled, sounding for all the world as if she had never been so glad to see anyone. It wasn’t entirely a lie, despite the stiffness of her wide smile. She wasn’t unhappy to see him at all, she never was, merely biting down waves of anxiousness in the face of very probably offense.

“Deborah!” Martin exclaimed in shock; to her chagrin, an understanding shadowed his eyes, and Martin’s forehead pinched in realisation, and wounded pride, as he brought his curled hands to rest at his waist.

“Welcome to the Flap and Throttle.” Deborah declared in a latch ditch attempt at joviality, lifting her hands into the air; she let her shoulders sag when the grounds crew cheered as one, ruining whatever moment of understanding that she and Martin had created.

oOoOoOo

Trying to explain to Martin what was going on without upsetting him was hard work. And unsuccessful.

He was upset that the bar had been kept from him for so long; Deborah couldn’t have mistaken the waver in his voice when he remarked that it was a secret club for everyone except _him_ , even if she had tried.

The guilt only intensified when she realised that Martin’s life had always been like that. He had _always_ been the one person left out of everything.

Unlike the grounds crew, who she knew looked down on him, and would have laughed at the knowledge that yes, Martin wasn’t a ‘cooler kid’ as he called it, Deborah sympathised greatly, she really did, even more so because it was _Martin_ , and for all of her harmless japes, she couldn’t imagine deliberately not being friends with him.

Besides, she was well versed in how Martin felt. She had never had trouble with people herself, but that was more…camouflage than anything else. On their own, drama club, a passion for the English language, far too much emotional investment in all things fictional, and a voice that shone in song and prose, would have left her alone at school; she had seen other members of her clubs alienated for less.

However, together, Deborah was able to mesh with any group of people she wanted… which was what made it so easy to slip into the bar for some company, without getting too attached to any of them.

The only problem was, she was rather attached to Martin…and he wasn’t happy with her at all.

As soon as the day was over, and he had filled in all of his paperwork, he was going to march into the bar and order it shut, and she couldn’t allow that. Deborah had spent the entire afternoon pondering the best way to appease both the grounds crew, who would turn on her if her colleague closed their pub, and Martin, who would probably never forgive her if she took their side over his.

Inevitably, she supposed, she came to the conclusion that the only thing she could do was to get them to cooperate, and invite Martin to join them.

A difficult task no doubt. Oh, Martin would be easily swayed by flattery, eager for the smallest scraps of attention. It was the lads she was worried about. They didn’t like him; not even a little bit.

Deborah was just going to have to bribe them, because she couldn’t stand the idea of letting them upset Martin. It might even be nice to have him at the bar. He wanted a lounge, she felt guilty for abandoning him; it was the best of both worlds really.

There were already a few people in the fuselage when Deborah arrived, and in order to make sure that her plan worked, she chatted amiably about the possibility of tickets to the football world cup that year, making sure to impress upon each of them the importance of _not going anywhere._

Conversation was too difficult to maintain for a long period of time, as more people arrived, each of them helping themselves to a drink, and telling her to stop being so serious; Deborah’s only response had been to smile pleasantly and continue pacing back and forth until she could identify most of the regulars gathered around the end of the bar.

It was fair to say, that nobody was impressed with her plan. Which was saying something, considering that most of them were usually quite amused by everything that she had to say.

“Look, I realise that you’re never going to be bosom buddies.” Deborah reasoned, hands outstretched in a show of measurement meant to convince them; standing facing a collation of men, all with similar imperious expressions on their faces wasn’t as intimidating as it might had sounded, but their potential for disregarding her every word simply on mass was nerve wracking to say the least, “But regardless of how you feel about Martin, could you please, _please_ , just be nice to him.”

“But why?” Terry moaned, pausing to throw back a mouthful of ale, “The bloke’s got a right stick up his arse!”

There was a chorus of approval, and Deborah rolled her eyes. Dave and George were most likely to play along, as they were more friendly with she and Arthur, but even they were reluctant to bother with Martin. They weren’t bad people, they just worked tiring jobs and didn’t want to endure Martin’s particular brand of enthusiasm.

“I know he does, but he can’t help it; that’s just how he is.” Deborah explained patiently, biting back the defensive retort that was nudging at the back of her mind, “I’m not asking you to _like_ Martin, but if you upset him, he might have your bar shut down.”

The men all turned to each other, sharing sideways glances, and a reluctant grumble rippled through the gathering.

“But Mrs Knapp-Shappey’s here all the time,” George argued fairly, shrugging his shoulders as if this were no real matter, “Just let him tell _her_ , then we can pretend the bar’s gone and move it somewhere else.”

Deborah _had_ already thought of that, and quickly brushed the idea away. Yes, it was easy, and the problem would be solved…but she would much rather try and ingratiate Martin into the loose community that they had. Not only would it give her someone else to talk to…but it would make his day to think that he’d been accepted into their ‘club’.

“No, this is a better plan.” Deborah replied, pursing her lips and controlling her expression, “You don’t _all_ need to talk to him, I just need a few of you to smile and say hello when he’s around, and let him join in your conversations…George? Dave?” Deborah batted her eyelashes just a tad, a devious move she knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures, “After all the years we’ve known each other, you can’t do this one thing for me?”

There was a collective groan, and then George dropped his head, expression falling to one of muted acceptance.

“Fine!” he groaned, “But we’re going to remember this.”

Deborah smiled widely, and checked her watch while the men spread out along the bar, grumbling among themselves.

“Okay, he’s on his way.” She announced, leaping into action, hands outstretched towards the men even as she began setting herself up to welcome Martin in and push him towards compliance, “Now, remember: we’re aiming for something between the bar in Cheers and the Mess Hall in Dam Busters; and I know you’d think if you use “Captain” in every sentence he’ll think you’re taking the piss, but actually, he won’t. Right, here he is.”

The fuselage door swung open, and Deborah swallowed down a fluttering of nerves in her chest at the sight of Martin striding in, and then faltering at the sight of everyone’s eyes on him.

“Welcome, Martin, to the Flap and Throttle.” Deborah beamed warmly, relishing the widening of his eyes.

She smiled brightly and walked arms open to his side, slipping an arm around Martin’s back to guide him towards the group. Martin’s head, and subsequently his upper body, followed the motion, but he didn’t resist, and allowed her to lure him into the action.

To Deborah’s relief, Martin stuttered, but he lapped up the false sycophancy, his demeanour brightening as he tried to appease the stiff yet amiable engineers while simultaneously trying to refuse their flattery.

Throughout the exchange, Deborah kept her arm around him, her hand pressed against the back of his uniform jacket. This was partly a way to keep him from retreating, partly a way to encourage Martin, as despite his floundering she was there…and in part a way to reassure _herself_ that Martin was still there, getting along with everyone, ingratiating himself despite his flaws, while her thumb rubbed unconsciously back and forth through the fabric. She wasn’t sure what she would do if he messed this up.

Which was why at one point, Deborah had to take his arm in her other hand and lead him to the other end of the bar in order to convince him that playing along would benefit the company. That fact that Martin so willingly believed the lies that she spouted was touching, in a way, but it also pulled at the guilty strings in her chest.

But at the end of the day, Martin was playing along. He was trying to join in the camaraderie, and the lads were putting up with him.

Everyone was happy.

oOoOoOo

It was nearly the end of the day, and Deborah was already itching to leave. Martin was working at his desk, looking unusually pensive, but she had decided hours before that it would be better to leave him to his thoughts while she worked from the sofa, balancing the papers that he had dropped on her desk on her knees.

It wasn’t the tidiest work she had ever produced, but it would do.

The door to the porta-cabin burst open, and Arthur hurried in and aimed straight for the coffee counter.

“Hi chaps, don’t mind me.” Arthur announced, as he snatched up a handful of mugs and stacked them in his arms.

“Hello Arthur,” Deborah drawled bewilderedly, sitting up straighter so that she could watch his actions; she decided to leave it be, “How’s your mystery passenger training coming along?”

Arthur paused in his flurry of activity and glanced over his shoulder, the rest of him following moments later.

“Oh, it’s going great.” He answered, smiling intermittently; it occurred to Deborah that he might have been over exaggerating, “See, I don’t normally have trouble stewarding, but this has made me see all the areas that I need to brush up on, which is brilliant, because then I can be even better.”

 “What sort of things have you been doing wrong?” Martin asked warily, looking up briefly from his desk, and raising an eyebrow in muted curiosity.

“Oh, nothing wrong!” Arthur assured him with a twitchy grin, as he crossed the room again, almost out of the door, “Just lots of things that I miss out.”

With that Arthur was gone, leaving behind him the dragging monotony of the end of the day.

The next twenty minutes rolled sluggishly by, and Deborah spent every second of them watching the ticking hand of her watch crawling around the face, listening to Martin’s pen scratch far too absently to be doing anything truly constructive.

“Five, four, three, two, one.” Deborah counted down lazily; the alarm on Martin’s watch bleeped the moment that the last word left her mouth, and at the sound, she hoisted herself to her feet and wandered to his desk, leaning down with her hands against the top as Martin placed the cap on his pen and sat back, “And so ends another eventful shift. Right, Martin, see you in the Flap and Throttle later?”

Over the course of the past few days, Deborah had really begun to enjoy having Martin at the bar with them. Sure, he was awkward and still didn’t quite fit in, but sitting on the peripheries of events was much more fun with Martin there.

The first time he had been pulled into the group, to discuss football of all things, Martin had floundered, and Deborah had listened, head turning between he and George as he proved his complete obliviousness to sports of any kind, and lost the approval of the engineers; she had rested her hand lightly on his wrist throughout, to give him a sense of confidence, and to reassure herself that he wasn’t going to dissolve into a puddle of nerves.

“Yes.” Martin replied, exhaling drearily. Deborah thought that he sounded unhappy, but put on a stiff smile nonetheless as he slouched back in his chair and made no effort to move.

“Good! And don’t forget to bring your shin pads. It’s Skittles night!” She remarked with forced fervour.

“Why-why-why do I need shin pads for Skittles?” Martin asked, his despair no longer subtle, as his eyes widened and bored into hers imploringly, his hand rising to rub distractedly at his forehead.

“Oh, the way they play it, if you’re not bowling you’re a skittle.” Deborah sighed, keeping up her encouraging cheer, and swaying forward slightly to bump the back of her hand against Martin’s upper arm.

“Oh God.” Martin groaned, covering his eyes with both hands and sinking further into his chair. For the first time, Deborah acknowledged the dull cloud of ice that had been cloying in her chest since she had first manipulated Martin into joining the bar. He had seemed pleased to be included, so she hadn’t given it much thought, but now…Martin was anything but happy, and that was making her uncomfortable.

“You all right?” she asked, lifting her hand to his arm once again, but this time brushing the back of her fingers up and down soothingly, before Martin’s eyes wandered to the movement and she retracted it slowly, her eyes fluttering from his.

“No.” Martin replied grimly, shaking his head agitatedly, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth.

“Why not?” Deborah pushed, and was caught off guard when he seemed to surge into movement, leaning forward, his head in his hands, running through his hair as he desperately held her gaze, as if begging for understanding.

“I hate it! Deborah, I really, really, really hate it.” Martin exclaimed frantically; Deborah held her composure, but couldn’t allay the stab of guilt in her guts as she realised how badly her plan was working out, “I hate the drinking games and the pop quizzes and the round forfeits and the competitive farting, and the Whoops Johnnys and the bloody anchovies …”

“If it’s any consolation…” Deborah started cautiously, looking at the papers on the desk rather than Martin’s wide blue eyes, “I thought you coped very well with being anchovied. You had a real quiet dignity.”

“I just can’t stand it!” Martin stressed, shaking his head again as if he could shake away his troubles if he carried on. Deborah’s heart lurched, and she decided that as much as she liked having him around, it was time to give him an out.

“Well, I suppose you could – it would be a wrench for all of us, of course – but you could stop coming in.” she said pointedly, hoping that he would realise what she was offering.

“No! I can’t!” Martin insisted, gnawing more desperately at his bottom lip.

“Can’t you?” Deborah sighed; she took her hands from the desk and hopped up onto the very edge, so that she could relieve the twinging in her back and carry on comforting Martin, who tilted back in his seat so that he could hold her eye contact despite the shift in position.

“Of course not!” Martin declared, gesturing wildly with his whole arms, “You saw what it was like when I first arrived: they were overjoyed! They said I made it a proper club; and they said it proved I wasn’t standoffish, so if I stop going now, it’ll prove I am standoffish. I-I only wish I’d never found out about the wretched place. And now I know about it, I have to go! I’m trapped – I’m trapped-trapped like a …”

“… tinned anchovy?” Deborah suggested, and Martin sagged even further, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily at what was beginning to sound like a terrible headache of concerns.

Deborah empathised; she had to fix this, and the only way to do it was via more sneakiness and deception, which she had been trying to avoid altogether.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Martin remarked dryly; Deborah’s eyebrows knitted, and she peered in confusion at him.

“What do you mean?” She asked, and Martin smirked bitterly, shaking his head and folding his hands over the edge of the desk.

“I mean, _I_ can’t even manage to get along with these people – I’m not a lad’s lad, I don’t like sports, or drinking in the middle of the day, or hanging out in a big group with an ‘oi-oi’ attitude…” Martin explained, shrugging nonchalantly as if it didn’t bother him, though Deborah knew that it did, “But _you_ , you’re with them all the time apparently…I just don’t understand.”

“I suppose I’m just a ‘lad’s woman’, aren’t I.” Deborah replied wryly, looking anywhere but at him.

Martin hummed under his breath and shook his head thoughtfully; when she dared to meet his gaze again, it was to find that he was peering concernedly at her.

“But you’re _not_.” Martin insisted firmly, calmly but with vehemence, “I _know_ you…you’re loud when you want to be, and you _can_ get down with the blokes when you feel like it, hell, you can get along with _anyone_ when you want to  - but you’re not a lad’s woman…you like books and spending hours on the sofa, and you always stay in our hotel room instead of going out to clubs or bars-”

“What are you saying Martin?” Deborah interjected sharply, folding her arms over her chest; she was uncomfortable enough already, but Martin was doing that thing that he did, where he would make the conversation far more personal than she ever intended.

“I’m just saying…” Martin sighed, shrugging and opening his palms to the world, and quirking his eyebrows, “I’ve always thought that you were too…refined…for those men in there.”

Deborah rolled her eyes, but there was no feeling behind it. Once again, she was unsettled but touched by Martin’s contorted concern for her.

“Well…apparently not.” She replied, slipping from the desk, “I’ll see you at the bar then.”

Taking a deep breath, Deborah strode from the porta-cabin. She thought that she heard Martin call some sort of response, but if it had been important, he would have chased after her. Crossing the airfield, the only thought that sat securely in Deborah’s mind was the one saying that she needed to sort out how to get Martin out of his obligation to the bar without upsetting…anyone.

oOoOoOo

Things hadn’t gone quite as planned, but Deborah supposed that with Martin now blissfully ignorant once more, and the bar relocated to thee fire crew’s break room, the natural order had been restored.

Yet, as she sat at lunchtime across the small table from Carolyn, who was reading a cooking magazine that she had picked up at the supermarket, Deborah couldn’t help but feel distinctly down-hearted. Thoughts of Martin kept wandering through her mind, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him sitting on his own in the porta-cabin.

She was starting to miss him.

“You’ve got a right face on you.” Carolyn remarked wryly, peering over her magazine. Deborah lifted her head from where she had been resting it on her arms, and shrugged flippantly.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She replied, turning to gaze around the room. The feeling would pass, she was sure of it.

Carolyn rolled her eyes, but allowed Deborah the peace of mind that she so sorely needed. The best thing about the woman, Deborah noted, was her ability to keep her mouth shut when required; although, that was mostly because she didn’t really care.

A shadow fell over the table, and Deborah looked up and plastered on a small smile as Dave and Terry nodded in greeting, pints in their hands.

“Just wanted to congratulate you on getting everything sorted out.” Dave remarked, taking in the bewildered shrug that Deborah responded with, “That Captain ‘Skipper’ was really starting to get on my nerves.”

It was supposed to be friendly, a companionable comment; except, Deborah didn’t dislike Martin as much as the engineers seemed to think. Or at all really. She felt herself tense, but merely folded her arms over her chest, observing from the corner of her eye how Carolyn pointedly ignored the discussion.

“He’s not that bad.” Deborah replied; her voice hadn’t come out nearly as strong as she had hoped it would, and she sounded weak to her own ears, disconcerted by the broiling in her stomach that made the skin of her arms itch.

“Are you kidding?” Terry interjected jovially, “He’s a right pain in the arse.”

Again, Carolyn said nothing, but something in Deborah’s head snapped, and her patience was gone. Just like that, the indecision that had been clouding her mind for weeks disappeared, and she suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there.

Deborah rose to her feet, nodding politely to Dave and Terry, and slipped her jacket back over her shoulders. Without another word, she strode from the bar, highly aware that there were eyes on her back.

Once out in the open air, she pulled her arms tighter around her chest, and inhaled as deeply as she could. Deborah glanced around the grass and concrete, and began walking before she could give it too much thought.

She didn’t want to be around them anymore.

Just as Deborah had expected, Martin was alone in the porta-cabin, settled in the corner of the sofa, one leg folded over the other, a book rested on his knee. He glanced up and bent the corner of the page when she entered, and his eyes followed her as she strode across the room and dropped lightly down onto the other end, pulling her legs up after her and wrapping one arm around them.

“Hello Martin.” She said warmly, feigning disinterest but failing abysmally, trying to maintain a wan smile, “What are you up to?”

“I’m reading…” Martin replied slowly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as she closed the book completely and placed it on the coffee table; Deborah followed the action, and brushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ears, pointedly ignoring the expression on his face that was turning to concern, “Deborah…are you alright?”

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” Deborah shrugged, inwardly cursing herself for sounding far too chipper. Martin would never believe it, and she didn’t want to talk about the flurry of mental arguments that had carried her from the bar to here.

Martin didn’t sit forward, but he tensed as if ready to, at a moment’s notice.

“No reason…I just didn’t think you were staying in over your lunch break.” He explained, then his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink ever so slightly, “Not that I mind that you _are_ – it’s just…”

“I understand Martin,” Deborah reassured him, lifting a hand to silence him before he could get worked up, or she could give in to the fondness that he instilled in her with the typical spluttering, “I appreciate your concern.”

“Right…you’re welcome…” Martin trailed off.

Deborah took her eyes from him, but could still see and hear him tap his fingers awkwardly against his knee as he looked about the room. She could only endure a minute or two of stretching silence, before she grasped at something that had been niggling at the back of her mind for days.

“Carolyn says that you want to set up a Pilot’s Lounge?” she remarked, turning back to him, pulling her knees closer to her so that she could settle more comfortably on the cushions. Martin gaped for a moment, then nodded swiftly.

“Well, it was just an idea.” He said, cocking his head and motioning with both hands as if it were no big deal, just a fleeting fancy; Deborah knew better, if only by the wandering path of his gaze, from the floor to her face, then back again, “I thought that if we had a room to ourselves, we could use it during breaks to discuss aviation-”

“You know, if you want to spend time with me, you only have to ask.” Deborah cut him off; her tone was soft and tentative, but it shut him up as if she had shouted.

Martin flushed scarlet, and rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing soundlessly, his chest heaving with the motion.

“That-uh, that’s not what I meant-” he stuttered, and then realising what he had said, “Not that I don’t want to – I _do, I_ just meant a _professional_ setting where we could-”

“Martin, I’m not stupid.” Deborah shook her head and touched Martin’s knee briefly to calm him down; his hands fell into his lap, and she felt her minute smirk threaten to slip into a thin smile, “We agreed that we were going to try and get along more easily, and try to be friends…so, like I said…if you want to spend time with me, you only have to ask.”

And she meant it. If Martin asked her to stay with him every break they got, she would say yes. Every time.

She wasn’t sure how to take such an inward revelation.

Martin was eyeing her warily, but there was something indecipherable in his expression, a slight softening, or affection, Deborah couldn’t be sure.

“That’s…we did agree to that didn’t we?” Martin chuckled a truncated laugh that petered off nervously; he shifted on the sofa, leaning forward as he readjusted his legs and hunched a fraction closer.

“Yes, we did.” Deborah agreed, keeping her posture but relaxing sideways into the cushions, smile still lingering as she tried to regain some of her suave confidence, “And, well, if you want to sit and talk about aviation, we don’t need a lounge – the porta-cabin works perfectly.”

“Yeah right,” Martin snorted, raising an eyebrow and nodding with his lips pursed, “ _You’d_ be happy to sit and talk about _flying_ with me.”

“I’m a pilot.” Deborah stated plainly, unsure of why the accusation raised her hackles; Martin paused in his sniggering, waiting expectantly, one arm over the back of the sofa; they were now facing each other properly, “I like flying.”

“Really?” Martin asked; he didn’t sound convinced, and Deborah bit the inside of her lip indignantly.

“Yes.” She insisted curtly, “Well, you like flying as in the act of flying – _I_ like _planes_ , as in, the machines themselves.”

“What?” Martin scrunched his face up in disbelief, shifting again from the dip that he had created in the sofa and moving to the denser cushions in the middle; Deborah had to move to counter the shift of weight, bringing them closer together, “Since when?”

“Since I was little!” Deborah stressed; she was close enough now that she could thump Martin lightly on the shoulder with the back of her fingers, before leaving her elbow to rest on the back of the sofa, fingers splayed for emphasis, “Both sides of my family are RAF, I’ve _always_ liked planes!”

“Really?!” Martin’s face lit up and his eyes widened, his lips playing into a fascinated smile that Deborah didn’t think he was aware of, “How can I not know that?”

“ _Because_ …” Deborah trailed off, caught up in her train of thought and meeting Martin’s gaze, unable to hide a smile herself as she pushed a hand through her hair, “This just proves my point, about us spending time together.”

“How so?” Martin retorted, eyes never leaving her face, darting up and down as if searching for some warning of a lie; he drew his bottom lip through his teeth.

“My point being…that perhaps we have trouble being friends…because even after a year and a half of working together, we still don’t know anything about each other.” Deborah explained, with a cautiousness hovering somewhere around her chest, making breathing just a fraction more laboured than it should be, as if she were afraid Martin might contradict her; her gaze lingered on his lips for a moment where he was biting down lightly, but then snapped back to his eyes, “Perhaps if we _were_ to spend more time together, we might talk about things other than aviation…as friends often do.”

Deborah held her breath without thinking about it, watching as Martin seemed to do the same; she was close enough that she would have felt it had he been breathing as heavily as he had before. Martin was gazing into the distance searchingly, and it was only when his eyes flickered to his hands, which moved to one another for the safety of intertwining, that he spoke.

“Yes, that sounds – well, that sounds nice…” Martin remarked thoughtfully, “Where – um- what sort of thing were you thinking of?”

A rush of something filled Deborah’s lungs, and she was filled with the overwhelming satisfaction of a job well done. She couldn’t help the smile that curled into her cheeks, and hopped up so that she could slip her knees beneath her.

“Well, I _have_ always wondered what your family was like to make you so obsessed with becoming a pilot.” Deborah replied, regaining a sense of composure and comfort.

“Ah…” Martin nodded sagely and blushed ever so slightly, “ _That_ might take a while.”


	17. Limerick

**Limerick**

It was hard to decide which was less appealing. The idea of staying in Hong Kong, or the prospect of an over twelve hour flight to Limerick. Deborah supposed that the flight wouldn’t be too horrible; there were no passengers, and the cargo was small enough to leave on the jump-seat, so there were few preparations to make, which would leave Martin, Carolyn, and Arthur in a good enough mood that they’d have fun so long as they didn’t bite each other’s heads off.

GERTI was humming, and Deborah was slouched in her seat, feet up on the control panel, hat tipped over the upper half of her face. It wouldn’t hurt to catch a few moments of absolute relaxation before she was expected to remain awake for longer than was humanly acceptable.

The flight-deck door swing open, and Deborah managed to pull the hat from her head and drop it onto the floor beside her chair, but wasn’t quick enough to move her feet before Martin could bat at her legs, an annoyed but bemusedly acceptant twist to his lips as he turned and dropped into his own seat.

“Did you do the walk around?” Martin asked, running his fingers over his hat and the lapels of his jacket, giving her the once over and rolling his eyes in an amused manner at the unruly state of her uniform; Deborah couldn’t help but smirk fondly.

“Yes, I did it when you told me to do it.” Deborah answered with a sigh, flicking the correct switches without having to be told, while Martin did the same, “And I can tell you that GERTI is as pristine as she’ll ever be. Granted that’s not very, but it’s not as if anyone’s going to notice so high in the air.”

“Hmmm…we’re going to be in the air for over twelve hours, we need to be sure.” Martin remarked, his hands curling around the arms of his seat as he turned as if to get up and check for himself.

“Martin, I am absolutely sure that the plane is fine.” Deborah waved her hands dismissively, as Martin settled himself back down, looking unconvinced, the bridge of his nose crinkled, “That’s not my biggest concern right now.”

“Oh don’t tell me you’re bored already.” Martin groaned, as his eyebrows wandered up to his hairline, “I don’t think I could survive the whole flight if that were the case.”

“No, it would be horrible.” Deborah agreed, crossing one leg over the other as she sat a little straighter, setting her shoulders back; she turned her head so that she could address Martin more directly, dropping her tone an octave, just to rib at him, “Which is why I’m relying upon you to entertain me.”

“Now hold on,” Martin retorted, snorting a little at the implication; he had been getting better at reacting to false japes and innocent flirting, and surprisingly, Deborah found that it was more fun when he was laughing as well, “Surely, as _my_ First Officer, it would be _your_ job to entertain _me_.”

“Well that depends entirely upon what you want.” Deborah drawled salaciously, fluttering her eyelashes dramatically.

To her pleasure, Martin’s cheeks lit up, and he spluttered, opening and closing his mouth once or twice, eyes darting towards the control panel until he was able to clear his throat and meet her gaze properly.

“Yes, nice try.” He conceded airily; then Martin glanced over his shoulder, though the flight-deck door was securely shut, and remarked that, “It shouldn’t be _too_ bad, I mean, Carolyn and Arthur will probably waft in and out, but we’ll be alright in here.”

There was something almost optimistic about his expression, and Deborah felt her heart go out to him. Perhaps a month or so ago, the prospect of hours locked together would have been torturous. But now, she…well, she wasn’t dreading it.

They _had_ been spending more time together, after Deborah had managed to convince Martin to talk to her about something other than aviation. Well, she had had to start by talking about planes for about a week, just to get the ball rolling, and to lay down the common ground between them.

And now…Deborah was quite confident in calling Martin her friend. In her head at least. Martin’s affections for her may have been more evident, but there were still limits that she was yet unwilling to cross.

“I suppose that I wouldn’t mind enduring your company, Captain.” Deborah remarked cheerfully, “So long as you won’t force me to remain all tucked in and professional for the duration of the flight.”

Martin’s eyes travelled the length of her as he peered down his nose, obviously trying not to seem as if he were staring.

“So long as you follow proper protocol, you can do what you like.” He conceded, and then his eyes widened and he became momentarily sterner, pushing his hat down onto his head as if centring himself, “But let’s not have a repeat of Sinai.”

Deborah bit back a chuckle, knowing that Martin would only make the flight unbearable if she annoyed him now; she hoped belatedly that he wouldn’t realise the temporary power over her that the potential for bored misery allowed. Sinai, as she knew Martin was remembering it, involved such hot and dry weather that by noon Deborah had stripped down to all but shorts and a thin top rolled up until it reached just below her bra.

Which Martin had taken great offence to at the time, though it was hard to tell whether he was blushing underneath the burn that stretched across his cheeks.

“I thought you _enjoyed_ Sinai…and the sights.” Deborah crooned, making sure to push her hair behind her shoulders and go about starting the pre-flight checks instead of meeting Martin’s indignant pout.

“You can imply all you want,” Martin said primly, shooting her a sharp glare, “But I don’t make a habit of ogling married women.”

At that a pang of resentment sounded below Deborah’s throat, and she swallowed it down with an inward scold; she kept forgetting that Martin didn’t know about the divorce. To be honest, she barely gave Harry much thought at all, only when he came up in conversation, which wasn’t often.

For some reason, the idea that Martin still thought she was married to someone else made uncomfortable things squirm in her stomach, and she found herself wanting more and more every day to let him know that she wasn’t.

With little else to fall back on, Deborah assumed that the guilt was down to the newfound closeness between them; Martin was nothing if not completely honest with her, and she was proud to say that she was now privy to a reasonable proportion of his life. As was he to hers…just not that part.

But telling him the truth…at no point would there be a good moment, and she didn’t think she could face the embarrassment. No, it was much easier to feel the sensations like tiny claws tickling at the back of her throat at every mention of her ex.

It had been too long for Deborah to come up with a decent retort, and Martin, when he took his eyes from her, now wearing a bewildered expression, leaned across to press the intercom. As he did so, his sleeve rode up his arm, and Deborah’s eyes caught hold of the glinting reflection of something new.

“This is your Captain speaking. We’ll be taking off soon,” Martin spoke clearly into the intercom, puffing out his chest even as he spoke his rank, “Just as soon as we’ve finished the checks.”

“ _Yes Martin, we know you’re the Captain.”_ Carolyn’s voice drifted neatly through the speakers, the only part of GERTI that was fully functional and flawless; Deborah smiled fondly at the way Martin’s nose wrinkled, “ _Just hurry up and take us home.”_

“Ok, fine…” Martin grumbled, and flicked the switch, “Deborah, could you-”

“What’s on your wrist Martin?” Deborah interjected, prodding at the offending article; Martin retracted his hand from where he had been curling his long fingers around a dial, and clutched it close to his chest before remembering that they were friends now, and relaxing his joints.

“It’s a watch.” Martin replied shortly, sounding awfully proud of himself, but not willing to divulge much more.

“Where did you get your watch?” Deborah pushed, enjoying the way that Martin leant forward and offered his wrist for her to inspect, clearly eager to show off whatever victory he thought that he had achieved this time, “I haven’t seen it before.”

“That’s because I bought it in Hong Kong, yesterday; I got it dirt cheap as well,” Martin explained, allowing Deborah to turn his arm over where she held it delicately between the fingers of both hands, “It’s a genuine Patek Philippe!”

A quick examination of the watch, and a foreknowledge of what Hong Kong was likely to throw up gave Deborah little confidence as to that assertion, and she let Martin’s wrist slip through her fingers and back to its owner.

“I hate to burst your bubble Martin, but I highly doubt that this is genuine.” Deborah stated as kindly as she could manage; this many months into their working relationship, it was unlikely that Martin would retaliate as he once would, but there was always wounded pride to take into consideration.

Martin shook his head, lips pressed together until they became a thin line. He held his arm stiffly bent in the air, as if presenting it to the world would make his assertion true.

“No, no, this _is_ a genuine Patek Philippe, and I can prove it.” Martin promised, holding Deborah’s gaze; she rolled her eyes, but waved her hand for him to continue, “You think of a game, and once you do, we’ll time it using _my_ genuine watch.”

Deborah scoffed, but raised an eyebrow delicately, folding her arms over her chest.

“As you wish, Martin, as you wish.”

oOoOoOo

Hours and hours had passed. It was so deathly boring, even with the others there. Besides, the topic of conversation had begun to shift into uncomfortable waters. Not that Deborah didn’t appreciate the honesty that was beginning to seep into the relationship between the entire crew.

But Martin had decided to be kind and caring and ask about Harry, and she had made some sort of excuse. She didn’t even remember what it was. All that she knew was that now she was sitting tensely in her seat, facing more forward facing than she had since Martin’s first few weeks, hands curled around the edges of the seat’s arms as she inwardly cursed herself for not just telling Martin the truth.

Then she had suggested that he take up internet dating. She didn’t know why; it was like a compulsion! There was no reason for Deborah to want him _not_ to find someone and be happy, yet she was itching against her own words. She just really, really didn’t want him to. She supposed that she just didn’t want him to fail, which Martin was destined to do.

In short, Deborah was going stir crazy and needed to walk around. Hoisting herself to her feet with a groan, Deborah met Martin’s gaze as he quirked his eyebrow and sat up a little straighter, waiting for a response. After hours locked together, formalities had been thrown from the plane in an ungainly fashion.

“You going for a wander down the cabin?” he inquired when Deborah only stretched her back, rolling her shoulders and yawning.

“Only if you don’t mind me leaving you on your own for a bit.” Deborah answered dryly, completely willing to sit back down if Martin asked. Martin just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, smiling wanly.

“No it’s alright, I’ve got things here.” He assured her, gesturing towards the achingly persistent sun ahead.

Deborah smiled briefly, taking one last moment to squeeze her eyes shut and readjust her mental wallowing.

“Thank you darling.” She remarked carelessly as she passed between the two seats, letting her hand drop down to squeeze gratefully at Martin’s shoulder. Deborah was peripherally aware of his head following the movement, but she paid it no notice, wandering into the Galley without a backwards glance.

Carolyn was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur was leaning against the counter holding the microwave, pawing through a magazine that his mother must have picked up at the airport, one filled with business advice that he probably didn’t understand, but enjoyed the challenge.

Deborah ambled to his side, and slipped her arms around his middle, leaning into his arm and closing her eyes. If she wasn’t careful, boredom could turn into tiredness. Just a small hug then.

“Arthur, I’m bored.” She groaned, pulling away before he could return the gesture, though he did close the magazine and smile cheerfully down at her, “Would _you_ like to fly the plane while I go and sleep away the hours?”

“Hmmm…” Arthur pursed his lips as if he were actually considering it, and Deborah folded her arms over her chest as she leant against the opposite counter; then he shrugged apologetically, “I don’t think Mum would be too pleased if we did that. Nor would Skip actually.”

“Are you sure they would notice if we just put my hat on your head?” Deborah teased, smirking slightly at the assumption of seriousness that Arthur adopted.

“I think they might.” He replied, cocking his head as he considered her, “We look quite different.”

“That we do Arthur, that we do.” Deborah sighed, letting her shoulders slump; she wasn’t going to go and bother Carolyn like she had planned, she didn’t have enough energy for much more than sitting with Martin, and barely enough for visiting Arthur.

Arthur nodded solemnly, and Deborah watched him shuffle about a bit.

“You know, one day I might try and teach you to fly GERTI.” She remarked thoughtfully, relishing the way that his eyes widened, and quickly compensating, “ _Try_ mind you.”

“ _Really_?” Arthur exclaimed, practically coming together with the energy needed to spring into a cartoon leap of joy.

“Only if you’re nice to me.” Deborah promised; she reached across the Galley to pat him on the elbow, before turning to walk back to the flight-deck.

“Aw, brilliant!” he declared, and that was all that Deborah stayed to hear, hiding her smile by turning her back on the steward and opening the metal door, stepping through and blocking out whatever Arthur was telling his mother now.

The moment that she entered the flight-deck, Martin rotated in his seat, slinging an arm over the back so that he could point with flourishing relief at the shades of amber shining through the front window.

“Deborah, look!” Martin announced as she manoeuvred herself into her own seat, turning slightly to her left so that she could see him more clearly, “At last! The sun’s almost gone again!”

“Oh, yes, there it goes.” Deborah sighed, looping her arms around her waist and smiling thinly at the Captain’s weary enthusiasm, “Come on, you big red sod – set, damn you!”

“There it goes. Come on, come on!” Martin egged, his eyebrows furrowed in effort as he leant forward in his seat, gripping the ends of the arms of his seat in his palms and glaring at the sky as if he could change it by force of will.

Deborah took pity on him, listening to the tickle of warmth in her chest, and reached over to the control panel.

“Tell you what: descending fifty feet.” She muttered as GERTI’s engines whined at the action; Martin slumped back in his chair, and observed her from beneath the hat that was tipped forward against all professional odds; Deborah made no move to acknowledge the attention, though she was detachedly pleased to have it, “And … gone.”

“That’s better.” Martin sighed as the light within the flight-deck faded away, leaving them in shadow, lit only by the miniscule lights on the console; then he tipped his head back, groaning and stretching both hands over his shoulders, “Oh, isn’t it lovely and dark?”

Deborah watched the motion, settling so that her cheeks was resting against the back of her chair; the darkness added sharper lines to Martin’s face, yet made him softer around the edges. She was fleetingly worried that if she hadn’t been distracted by him removing his hat and placing it over the corner of his seat, she might have been caught staring at him, soaking in Martin’s image. It was familiar…Deborah wasn’t sure why she had to reassure herself, but that was it; it was nice to look at something familiar.

“Mmm.” Deborah hummed in a belated response to Martin’s comment, barely summoning the energy to do more than sigh, “The sun has taken his hat off. Hip hip hip hooray.”

“He’s taken off his hat at last and gone a-bloody-way.” Martin concluded; it was harder to tell in the dark, but Deborah thought that he too slumped in his seat and turned his head to smile fondly at her; the thought filled her with pleasant feelings, even as Martin asked, “Shall I put the lights on?”

“No!” Deborah said quickly; then an idea occurred that had her sitting a little straighter, something that she recalled from their many bonding sessions, “Let’s keep the flight deck dark for a while, like a fighter plane.”

“Yeah!” Martin agreed with more enthusiasm than she had ever heard from him; she could imagine his face scrunching and his eyes widening with excitement, and the thought made her exhale in what might have been a giggle, but seceded to a smile.

She considered, that in another life, it might be fun to fly fighter planes with Martin; if only to see his face light up. As it was, he’d pass out if he got even a little dizzy.

Deborah didn’t allow herself to linger on the fact that Martin was apparently a definite in whichever reality she imagined, or wonder when that had happened…Instead, while he took advantage of the dark to do things that he wouldn’t normally, like intertwine his fingers and stretch his arms out before him, and roll his head from side to side, Deborah thought back to something they had been discussing earlier.

She supposed, that however much the idea didn’t sit right in her stomach…she _did_ want Martin to be happy.

“You know…for what it’s worth…I think you should give one of those dating sites a go.” Deborah suggested, hoping that her voice didn’t sound as downcast to him as it did to her, “You can always make up a hobby.”

“Yeah, but even if I did meet someone, where would I take them?” Martin retorted, clearly having heard nothing other than an obstacle to his success, as he motioned hopelessly with his hands exposed, “They’d expect an airline captain to be able to wine and dine them, and I’m always broke because … well, you know why.”

“You don’t have to tell them you’re an airline captain.” Deborah remarked quietly; she truly meant it; is someone actually gave Martin the chance to speak, to get his words out without worrying about whether he was living up to their expectations, then…they’d be as enamoured…Deborah shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see her, “… Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She let the indignant silence drag for only a moment, before the real issue that got in the way of Martin’s love life, the one thing that he hadn’t ever spoken to her about, tiptoed to the front of her mind, “Does Carolyn really not pay you anything?”

She asked tentatively, in her real voice, not a lowered and caramelised one, as she brought her fingers up to stroke through the loose curls of hair that hung around her face, but Deborah wasn’t sure if Martin noticed. Likely he was wrapped up enough in the chance to vent his troubles that it didn’t occur to him who was asking.

“No, nothing.” Martin replied, flicking idly at one of the controls; though she couldn’t see his expression clearly, Deborah thought that he must have been frowning, slouched back as he was, arms held limply at his sides.

“So, how do you get by?” she inquired cautiously, quietly, still unwilling to break the steady calm between them. She thought for a moment that Martin might not answer, but she heard his throat clear, though he didn’t turn his head.

“I have another job that I fit in around the trips.” Martin told her, a spring in his tone that would hardly have stood to interrogation.

“Yes?” Deborah pushed softly; she fought not to turn fully in her seat, to pull her elbows and knees to her chest and listen avidly, to beg him to tell her everything that was wrong. It was making her sad, that much she knew, and Deborah was keen enough to realise that at some point, she had come to care about Martin enough that this mattered, a lot more than it should have.

Martin exhaled reluctantly before he continued.

“I … am … a man.” Every word he said sounded forced, and Deborah couldn’t help but roll her eyes and interject, though it lacked its usual bite.

“Yes, all right, Martin. You’re not in an Arthur Miller play.” She drawled gently, a smirk flickering at the corner of her lips.

“Let me finish!” Martin insisted, raising a hand at her, and letting it rest on the arm of his seat; the laughter in his tone was enough to encourage him apparently, and he stiffened and then relaxed his spine as he declared, “I am a man … with a van. People call me up and I go round in my van and move their stuff for them.”

With the darkness hiding Martin’s true expression, Deborah found herself trying to picture Martin, none of the usual prissiness and pressed attire (such things wouldn’t last five minutes on a van man), yet still quintessentially Martin.

And then came the rush of affection, from her stomach to her chest, leaving strange tingles in her digits; the same fondness that had flooded her senses all that time ago when she had found out how hard Martin worked purely for the sake of flying, even going so far as to work for free.

It should make her want to thwack him round the head, but it was so… _Martin_ …

No other man could go through six re-takes and have her call it perseverance and fibre, or work wageless and have her call it anything less than stupidity, but when Martin did it, it was so endearingly _Martin_.

And when she looked at it that way, as her Martin that she had been getting to know over breaks and long flights…it made all the sense in the world that he was slaving away in his every spare moment, just so that he could fly the damn plane.

Captain Crieff couldn’t do it, but Martin could. Deborah wasn’t sure if she’d ever reconcile them as one person.

“Ah.” She let out a small sound of understanding, and offered a few words of comfort, as Martin was still brooding, “That’s…interesting…explains a lot actually.”

“What does it explain?” Martin replied suspiciously, turning his head as if he could see her, and glaring even though she knew that he couldn’t, though she could hear his hands clenching once more around the arms of his seat.

“Nothing bad!” Deborah assured him, raising one hand in surrender, keeping her tone light, retreating to the less worrying ideas that had wafted through her mind, “I just…it explains how you achieved a physique such as yours.”

“It’s nothing special.” Martin remarked hastily, and she was sure that his cheeks were scarlet by now, flushed so dark that his freckles would have been invisible even in the light.

“No, but…I have been intrigued and…unsure of how to bring it up without sounding…” Deborah allowed herself to trail off, still unsure of how to elucidate the fact that she had literally spent hours of her life trying to work out how Martin manage to look so damn good; it was a good thing that he couldn’t see her properly, but she decided to try and reassure him nonetheless, “but I suppose that I can sort of see it.”

“What?” Martin asked, sounding confused for the first time, rather than suspicious or dejected.

“I can see you as a man with a van.” She clarified, hoping that Martin didn’t think that she was mocking him; that was still a rut in their relationship, the one thing that caused problems. Despite all her efforts, there was obviously still a part of Martin that didn’t trust her.

“How so?” he snorted bitterly, rolling his shoulders again, “I can’t.”

“Well…you’ve got Captain Crieff, which is you when you’re here…and then you’ve got Martin, who’s you when you’re not working, like during our breaks…” Deborah reasoned, but Martin cut her off.

“And you can see me as a menial labourer?” he remarked in disgruntled disbelief, almost turning fully as if to stare and raise his eyebrows at her. Clearly this was something that they did not see eye to eye on, even if Deborah thought that they should.

“No! I just…I can see you…putting in the effort where it’s required, that’s all I meant.” Deborah contradicted him, her tone losing some of the lightness, but holding on to the sympathetic edge, “It doesn’t matter -  where did you get a van?”

“When my dad died, he left me his van.” Martin answered as if it were no big deal, as if she should have worked that out herself, the silly thing. Deborah knew Martin well enough to know when he was forcing himself, and even the way that he turned back to the darkened window and began to rap his fingers of the arm of the seat, was enough to tell her that this was not a decision he had been pleased with at them time, or now.

“That’s nice … isn’t it?” Deborah attempted an encouraging prompt; it _did_ get Martin to open up, as she had wanted, but unfortunately, Martin had a lot that he had been keeping in, and apparently now was the moment that he chose to trust her with it.

“Well, he didn’t leave me any money. I mean, I didn’t want his money but he didn’t leave me any. Simon and Caitlin got five grand each, but I didn’t. Suppose because he thought I’d spend it on trying to become a pilot – waste it on trying to become a pilot, because I had spent thousands by then, so … instead he left me his van, and his tool kit, and his sodding multimeter.” Martin let his hands fall open either side of his for emphasis, as his head tilted with the beat of his discontent; Deborah listened in silence, giving him for once, her full attention.

“I mean, he didn’t leave a note in the glove compartment saying … “ _For God’s sake, son, give it up and become an electrician”_ … but he might as well have done,” Deborah wanted to reach across and take Martin’s hand, or pat him on the wrist, but settled for simply feeling sad on his behalf, wondering fleetingly whether his father’s wish meant that Martin had some hidden handy-man skills that she wasn’t privy to; he probably did, he was good at that sort of thing, “and then four months after he died I got my first job a pilot. I mean, it was a rubbish job, but four months … and then I got this job and … I was a captain, but not making money, and I went back to the van.”

Martin sighed, and slumped even further into his seat, continuing as if disappointed with himself, but talking to her. Deborah couldn’t help but feel flattered in amongst the sympathy that Martin was telling her all of this; he was actually letting her see him completely as himself for the first time in all the months and months that they had known each other.

“That’s why I don’t have any hobbies. My job is humping boxes into my dad’s old van – that’s what I’m paid to do. This – this is my hobby.” Martin waved his hand about the flight-deck before dropping it once more; then he turned again, and Deborah thought that had it been light they might have been looking right at each other, “And it’s-it’s not your fault, but it doesn’t help that I sit next to you with your perfect life and your happy marriage and your salary and the … well, frankly, in any figures at all, it doesn’t help.”

And all of a sudden Deborah couldn’t do it anymore; the decision wasn’t a struggle as she had thought it might be, it merely became the only option. She wanted Martin to feel better, and the only way to do that was by letting him know her how he had allowed her to know him.

For worse…rather than for what they had in common.

“Not a perfect life, perhaps.” Deborah admitted, turning away from Martin for the first time since the darkness had fallen, sitting forward in her chair, allowing her arm to rest over the edge of the seat’s barrier, “After all, I’m sitting next to you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Martin sighed in a put upon manner, mirroring her actions, and she could almost hear him rolling his eyes, “Thank you for those few kind words of sympathy.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Deborah recovered quickly, swallowing down her trepidation and reminding herself that it was _Martin_ she was talking to, and that she was still _her_ , “I just meant, I’m not at Air England any more. I’m here. And///you know some things about my life. You know about Harry thinking I’m the captain.

“Yes. Why did you tell him that?” Martin retorted; Deborah almost smiled at the realisation that Martin evidently hadn’t surmised that she was trying to reveal something deeply personal.

“I didn’t tell him. He just assumed I was.” She countered; then the weight of Harry’s accusations, the expectations that she couldn’t quite meet all rushed back, “People tend to do that…Don’t know if you’ve noticed…”

“Yes, I have!” Martin replied matter-of-factly; to his credit, Deborah didn’t think that he sounded anywhere near as offended as he used to. Just acceptant, and…she hoped that was affection…

“And I just failed to correct him.” Deborah concluded, unable to think of much else to say, staring out into the night’s sky.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I really think you ought to tell him.” Martin told her, trying so hard to be helpful and supportive, and falling just short of the mark, “I mean, he loves you. He’s not gonna care, you know, whether you’re a captain or not.”

“Yes. I have told him now, actually.” Deborah remarked quietly, unable to force her voice much louder, not when she was struggling to get the confession through her lips at all.

“Oh, right!” Martin responded hopefully.

“Yes – quite soon after you came over that day.” She continued, curling her fingers over the edge of the arm of her seat, securing herself, just in case.

“Right.” Martin sounded so pleased for her, it was almost enough to make her stop, but Deborah had made up her mind, “And how did he take it?”

“Really well – very well. You were quite right.” Deborah’s voice sounded stilted to her own ears, despite its airy façade and forceless timbre, “He didn’t mind at all. Not at all. He was glad I told him.”

“Right! Great! Oh, that’s wonderful!” Martin exclaimed, so happy for her that it made her heart ache for him, just wanting him to understand and take it for the show of solidarity that it was, “God – I thought from the way you were saying it, she’d hit the roof.”

“No.” Deborah’s nails dug into the edge of her seat, but she made herself retract and lay her hand down once again, calm and collected. She wasn’t going to hold in her misery, or her disdain for that matter, for Martin’s sake. He would take it as it was.

“Good!” Martin continued.

“Very calm.” Deborah allowed for the first time in months, the weight of Harry’s departure to truly leave her shoulders. She could pretend that everything was okay, and cry early on, but at no point had she allowed herself to properly vent her anger, her _visceral_ desire to skin him alive.

Martin was a bloody godsend, and he would never fully understand why. If Deborah had known months ago that she could talk to him, have him talk back, and have some sort of understanding…well, the poor man would have probably run for the hills.

“And wasn’t I right? Don’t you feel it’s a huge weight off your back?” Martin asked in a cheerful tone.

“Yes and no.” Deborah teased the syllables, allowing some of her disdain to leech into her voice. There was little point being mild and wounded now; if Martin got to be irritable about his shoddy inheritance, then she damn well got to be mad about her cheating husband.

“And no?” Martin repeated, finally catching on to the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Deborah felt more than saw him shift to allow her more attention.

“What he actually said was, he was pleased I’d told him my secret because it made it easier for him to tell me his.” Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

“Oh.” Martin breathed, and she could imagine him dragging his bottom lip between his teeth.

“His was the more conventional sort. If I had to criticise, I must say it lacked the verge and originality of mine. I mean, “Darling, I’ve been lying to you about the precise rank I hold in a small charter airline” – I flatter myself that’s not a confession often made.” Deborah explained, taking subtle pleasure in finally getting to damn Harry and having someone else know what he had done (Carolyn didn’t count, not really), ““Darling, I’ve been having an affair with my Tai Chi teacher” – bit more run of the mill.”

“Oh.” Martin chorused again, now sounding guilty, as if it were _his_ fault; she didn’t think to reassure him though.

“I mean, fair enough: points for Tai Chi teacher rather than tennis coach or dancing instructor, but basically familiar territory.” Deborah concluded, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

“Oh…” Martin said _again_.

“Mmm.” She replied, unable to think much else now that the mutterings from the back of her mind were finally out in the open. It was as if she had open a set of blinds and the draft let in had breathed new life into her.

“I’m so sorry.” Martin said quietly; Deborah turned her head, but of course, all that she could see was that Martin was looking at her, though his expression was invisible, and his limbs were loose.

“Thank you.” She answered, blinking heavily, and turning back to the window.

The next thing that she knew, she felt Martin’s hand brush against the back of her fingers; just the tips of his knuckles against hers, but definitely there, tentative and lingering, withdrawn the moment that she reacted reflexively, her own finger shifting to hook around his in the moments before the sensation disappeared.

Deborah lifted her head slowly, tracing her eyes over where she thought that she could see her hand, up to gaze at the mass that was Martin, her mouth lips parted in touched surprise. The clinging, tugging warmth in her chest was back, and it was with a lurching sense of trepidation that Deborah realised that the fluttering hadn’t been residual turmoil from the divorce at all, hadn’t vaporised with the rest.

“Oh God, if only I hadn’t come round that night.” Martin finally uttered, actually sounding _guilty_ for something that he had no control over.

“Oh, no, don’t be silly!” Deborah scolded him lightly, wrapping her arms around her chest, “You didn’t tell him, after all. No, I-I don’t blame you. I blame the Chinese.”

“What for?” Martin asked, bewildered.

“Tai Chi.” Deborah stated plainly, smirking even though no one would see it, enjoying the pleasure of pettiness while it lasted.

“I think that was the Japanese.” Martin corrected her, shaking his head.

“I bet you a fiver it was the Chinese.” She challenged; now that he mentioned it, Deborah thought that he might be right, but she wasn’t going to admit to it.

“You’re on!” he countered; Martin shook out his shoulders as if he had been holding them stiffly, and silence fell between then as the conversation dropped. Deborah mused that it was no wonder people didn’t just talk about their feelings if it led to such awkward silences afterwards.

And then Martin managed to break it and make the tension in the flight-deck even more puzzling.

“So…Deborah…you’re…” Martin didn’t quite stutter, but he also didn’t seem to want to get the words out, or to sound nearly as inquisitive as he did, “…single?”

Deborah didn’t quite tense, but she definitely froze, holding her breath and staring pointedly out of the front window. The fluttering in her chest might have been moths rather than butterflies, and suddenly she wished that she could be in the cabin with Carolyn and Arthur, while being simultaneously intrigued. Her brain wasn’t even letting her see what was so worrying.

“In the sense that I’m not in a relationship…yes…” she replied wryly, “Is that important?”

“No, not at all,” Martin insisted hastily, and she could see his arm rising for him to rub a hand over the back of his neck as he took on a sheepish tone, “I just, uh, I’m just updating the mental filing system.”

“You keep information on me?” Deborah’s interest was piqued, though she was mildly disconcerted, and she turned her head ever so slightly, conscious that any more, and she would be staring again.

“No – it’s not really a filing system,” Martin explained, hands making circular motions as he tried to justify himself; there was small comfort in the fact that everything seemed back to normal, “I just…trying to figure you out.”

“You haven’t done that already?” Deborah asked softly, tightening her arms around her chest; the very idea made her shiver uncomfortably. She didn’t think that she was that strange; most people made their minds up about her quite quickly, Deborah couldn’t imagine why Martin had such trouble.

Martin struggled for a few moments, and then sighed, letting his hands fall.

“You’re a bit difficult to place…” he remarked, said in the tone of a man who was weary and had little other choice.

“I could say the same about you…” Deborah retorted wryly, unsure of how she felt at all about that; her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she snuck sideways glances at the dark shape that was Martin, tensed and nervous.

“Yes…well…” Martin cleared his throat and tried to seem jaunty and confident, though it didn’t quite work, to Deborah’s amusement, “I’m glad you’re, uh…are you alright?

“You know what Martin, I actually am.” Deborah replied, entirely honestly, the first time she had been able to even think such a thing and have it be completely true…in regards to Harry at least. She let the tension leak from her shoulders, and slumped back against the hard cushions of her seat.

“You’re not…I don’t know…missing your husband?” Martin asked, attempting unsuccessfully to be nonchalant and flippant; the sound of his uniform brushing against itself told her that he was moving his limbs far more than she could see to emphasise his ‘lack of concern’. It was quite touching really.

“No, not at all…and why should I be, we clearly weren’t working…” Deborah noted dryly, waving her hand dismissively; she exhaled slowly through her nose as she suspected that Martin wasn’t convinced, his silence testament enough, “and I’ve got you lot nagging me all the time, I barely have time to miss him.”

Martin hummed in acceptance, and then stretched his arms to adjust a control that didn’t need adjusting. Then he sat back, hands once again curled around the edge of his seat’s arms, and said nothing. Deborah could practically hear the furrowed eyebrows and the lip gnawed between his teeth.

“Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?…or even during our breaks?” Martin blurted, and then paused, and brought his tone under control, clearing his throat; Deborah allowed herself to watch the dark shape that was him, and didn’t look away when she presumed his eyes wandered over her face; she might have done if it were light and he had any chance of reading her expression, “I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your van business?” Deborah shot back, smirking slightly as Martin turned away quickly, letting out a small scoff, running a hand over the bottom of his face.

“I don’t know…” he groaned, the smile clear in the lilt of his voice, “Pride probably.”

“Well there we go.” Deborah offered only that, dropping her head down to conceal a tentative smile even though she knew it wouldn’t be seen regardless. She wasn’t sure where to go from there, and Martin remained quiet.

And there were still nearly eight hours of the flight left. Here was to hoping that Carolyn and Arthur came back and found something interesting to do. Even though Deborah would much rather they stayed away, and she and Martin could have left the flight-deck dark, and just remained the two of them for a little longer.


	18. Interlude 6

**Interlude 6**

“You have to be joking!” Deborah was having trouble remaining composed, a grin filling her cheeks despite her efforts to seem as disinterested as she usually was, “ _Really_?”

“In all the time we’ve known each other have I ever joked about a job?” Carolyn retorted, raising an eyebrow delicately as she lowered the hand that had frozen over her computer, a bewildered expression on her face.

Deborah had only gone into Carolyn’s office to find out what they had on for the next few weeks, leaving Martin and Arthur to their own devices in the rest of the porta-cabin. As expected, the older woman had entertained her with a list of lesser errands that needed running, and Deborah had sat and nodded along in the chair reserved for guests so that they didn’t get too close to the desk.

Now she was pleased that she had found the patience, because just as she had risen to her feet, and was making her way towards the door, Carolyn had told her about their Friday job as if it were merely a second thought. And to use Arthur’s favourite declaration, it was a brilliant job.

“Well, how long are we there for?” Deborah inquired, leaning back against the door, hoping that the slouch this allowed would detract from the fact that her hands were linked in excitement, and she was bouncing ever so slightly on the heels of her feet.

“The trip was booked by a group of university students wanting an island holiday.” Carolyn explained, shaking her head and doing nothing to hide her disdain for the whole idea, “So they can only afford a full weekend. We fly in on the Friday, and fly back on the Monday.”

Deborah didn’t both pretending not to be pleased at the prospect. A plane full of students could be endured for the sake of the end result.

“So, in short, we have two full days’ holiday between the flights?” She asked for clarification, pressing her palms against the wood of the door and fidgeting as she watched Carolyn carefully for any flicker of argument, “To do with as we wish?”

“I’m only paying for the hotel rooms, the rest is on you.” Carolyn replied curtly; she was still eyeing Deborah peculiarly, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care, “As far as I’m concerned you can do whatever you want in you free time; visit the sights, bask in the sun…continue being terrifyingly excited…it’s all the same to me.”

“Excellent!” Deborah remarked, and with a final grin, she pushed away from the door and hurried through it, leaving Carolyn behind her. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, and scanned the room, making a beeline for Martin when she saw that he was in the same place as she had left him.

Arthur was lying on the sofa, newspaper propped on his stomach as he tried to fill in the day’s crossword, but simply tapping his pen against his nose while peering thoughtfully at the paper without having filled out a single clue.

Martin looked up from whatever he had spread across his desk this time as Deborah swung Arthur’s abandoned wheelie chair to the opposite side, and dropped into it, resting her arms flat on the top, and greeting him with a pleasant smile.

He placed the cap back on his pen and dropped it into its pot, his eyebrows furrowing as a small, confused smile curled at the corner of his lips, and he ran his eyes over her as if checking for errors.

“You’re in a good mood…” Martin remarked slowly, bordering on fond suspicion, as he too folded his arms over his desk top, and sighing as was ritual at the tail end of a working spree, “Why are you in a good mood?”

“Because Martin, and you’re going to love this-” Deborah drew out her answer, sweeping her hands across the desk to lie in a steadying position over Martin’s wrists, straightening her back to build the suspense, “On Friday, we’re flying into St Martin.”

Martin’s eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth in a silent question, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips; Deborah shook her head, to say, no, no she wasn’t lying.

“Wow! We’re going to somewhere named after Martin?” Arthur exclaimed, and when Deborah turned to glance fleetingly over her shoulder, he sitting upright on the sofa; apparently he had been listening, “Or, that Martin’s named after, as the place is probably older.”

“Yes Arthur, but that’s not why I’m pleased.” Deborah replied, turning back to meet Martin’s gaze; he had flushed with the prospect.

“Are we flying into Princess Juliana international airport?” Martin asked, barely louder than a whisper; Deborah had known he would be thrilled at the idea, and she wasn’t disappointed, stomach turning pleasantly as he slipped his wrists from her fingers and grasped instead at her hands, as if relying upon her to deliver good news lest he falter with the agony of it. Reflexively, her fingers curled around his.

Martin was leaning across the desk almost unconsciously, gripping her hands between his expectantly, and Deborah couldn’t resist mirroring his actions, adopting the air of someone divulging information that a cult would kill for.

“Yes, Martin, yes we are.” She answered in a stage whisper, grinning through a smirk at the joy that washed across his features, and his hands seemed to vibrate in hers, “I knew you’d be pleased.”

“Oh, I _am_.” Martin exclaimed, his excited laugh blowing hot air across her cheeks; Deborah laughed quietly, and leaned back, increasing the space between them as Martin finally released her hands, which she left sprawled across his desk, “I am _very_ pleased!”

“What’s so special about the airport?” Arthur interjected, looking bewilderedly between the two of them, a strangely pensive crinkle about his nose and forehead.

Deborah shot Martin a sideways glance, and he needed no more prompting to surge into speech; it was sweet really, how passionate he became when talking about planes. Deborah did her best to listen whenever he did, but often she found herself just watching his arms swing about in regimented patterns, and his whole expression soften, with a small smile on her lips.

“Well, it’s really just a small airport, but the runway, it points over a beach that’s only about a road’s width away.” Martin explained, sitting back in his seat, which bounced slightly with each sturdy movement; Deborah thought that he almost seemed to fill more space like this, “It’s a challenge to land on, and to take off, because it’s quite short, and the planes come in quite low over the beach – but I think we’ll do well, because GERTI’s not nearly as big as some of the Seven-Four-Seven’s they fly in on a regular basis.”

Deborah hummed in agreement, but shook her head, as she crossed one leg over the other and swivelled the chair so that she could lounge with both men in her line of sight.

“That’s still not why _I’m_ excited.” She drawled, inspecting her nails, but sneaking glances at Martin, waiting for him to ask as she knew that he would.

“Why are you excited?” Martin demanded, leaning forward again, his eyebrows knitting as he glared at her, searching for an unimportant answer. Deborah allowed herself one more salacious smirk, before resting her hand palm up on the desk, and explaining.

“Because, Martin, I happen to know someone who is very fond of all things aviation,” Deborah drawled, looking pointedly at Martin, raising her eyebrow when he nodded twitchily in response, “and as we happen to be staying for four days near a beach, over which there is regular aeronautical traffic, I thought that I might ask this friend of mine if he wanted to take advantage of that…with me.”

Martin’s eyes, widened ever further, if such a thing was possible, and he looked as if he could not decide between a bashful smile and a bewildered gape, managing to present both as he rubbed at the back of his neck and drew his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You want to go plane spotting with me?” he clarified, quietly, like a child afraid that their newest gift might be withdrawn at a moment’s notice, “ _You_...?”

“Yes, _me!_ ” Deborah retorted, shrugging her shoulders and raising her hands into the air in a gesture of indignant pride, “It’ll be fun.”

She watched as Martin swallowed this information, nodding slowly, sitting back and relaxing somewhat; Deborah couldn’t help but acknowledge the tremble of nerves in the base of her guts, and cursed the part of her mind that made her have to keep her expression cool and under control, rather than letting expectation cloud her pleasant demeanour.

“That sounds nice…” Martin said finally, bringing his hands together over the desk, linking his long fingers at the knuckles and smiling intermittently; he seemed to have trouble meeting her gaze for long, but Deborah kept her eyes on his, “I’d, uh -  I’d like that, we should definitely…do that. Is there anything you need me bring? Food? Um…”

“We can sort that out when we’re there.” Deborah assured him, relief washing over her, making it easier to smile without thought, “Just make sure to pack clothes for the beach and walking around. I’ll cover everything else.”

oOoOoOo

The air conditioning must have been faulty, because the airport at St Martin was stifling hot. Deborah stood alone, leaning against a railing that she had found, scrolling through her phone for something to do; her jacket was now throw over her elbow, and she had unbuttoned the top of her shirt on the plane.

Martin and Carolyn had disappeared off to fill in the relevant paperwork for GERTI’s stay at the airfield, and Arthur had gone to…do whatever stewards did after a busy flight. The students had been nicer than expected, polite and courteous, but they had still left a mess, and managed to break the weaker of GERTI’s inner workings while they were at it.

The landing into the airport had been interesting, to say the least. Martin had taken it, on the understanding that _she_ be allowed the take-off on Monday, and had then proceeded to have a ten minute panic over the possibility of landing on the people by accident. It hadn’t pained Deborah as much as she had thought it might to reassure him that he was not a bad enough pilot to miss the runway entirely.

Somewhere to her right, a group of men that couldn’t have been more than twenty-five were making a racket, cackling raucously, and shouting odd things at the occasional traveller. At the moment, they were calling out to someone who wasn’t listening.

“Oi, over ‘ere!”

“Oi, we’re talkin’ to you!”

Deborah glanced up from her phone, and realised belatedly that the group, all dressed in tourist type garb, quite obviously a few drinks into the day, were addressing _her_. She rolled her eyes, and looked back down at her phone, ignoring the clammy weight that dropped into her gut along with irritation and disdain. Unfortunately, the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey, lookin’ good Captain, give us a twirl!” one of the men called, and Deborah saw him mock salute from the corner of her eyes. She was seized by the irrational desire to correct them and say that she _wasn’t_ the Captain, but held her tongue.

Then she felt one of them slide into place beside her, one arm slung over the railing, as he pushed a hand through his atrociously cut blonde hair, and leered down at her; Deborah shifted so that her spare arm was around her chest, but otherwise stayed where she was. She wasn’t going to move. They may have been annoying, but pathetic was more the word that came to mind.

“So, err…which one’s your plane?” the man asked, while his companions egged him on from the bench that they had claimed as their own.

Deborah turned her head to raise an eyebrow at the man, and grimaced in a facsimile of a pleasant smile, making sure to keep her phone pointedly raised in the hope that they would realise that she was busy and leave her in peace.

“Not _your_ plane,” she drawled sardonically, pouting rather than smirking; he was leaning in far too close for her to bother with manners, he clearly wasn’t, “so if you want to talk to your pilot, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Aw, just come over here and have a drink with us.” One of his friends called across, and the man looming over her chuckled stupidly, paying more attention to whether his mates were watching than the disdain with which Deborah glared up at him.

If anything, the fact that he was showing off for them made her even more furious, though she vowed to remain disinterested if nothing else, looking back down at her phone and wandering down the railing, eyes on the text from Martin telling her that they were ready to leave.

She heard the man follow her, saying something along the lines of ‘come on, just a little while’, but had little time to respond, as Arthur appeared by her side, red in both shirt and face, letting his arm hover around her back. A rush of relief flooded unbidden through her veins, making it even easier to glare at the offenders.

The other man faltered, probably noting the half a foot Arthur had in advantage, but Arthur didn’t even spare him a glance, addressing Deborah only, turning them as if to create a private conversation. Nevertheless, Deborah didn’t miss the furrowing of his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“You ready to go, Deborah?” Arthur asked lightly, “Mum’s waiting with the taxis.”

“Mum?” the man repeated, and Arthur turned to glare at him fleetingly, but Deborah simply nodded in response to Arthur’s inquiry, ignoring the tourist entirely, noting inwardly how the group as a whole had fallen sheepishly silent.

“Yes, I’m done here.” She replied shortly, allowing Arthur to put his arm around her back, though she mused she wouldn’t have had much choice in the matter, and begin to lead her away.

“Fine, your sister’s boring anyway.” The man groaned, and stalked back over to his friends, who were booing his failure.

“Sister?” Arthur asked, looking down as he marched Deborah though the airport, keeping his arm around her waist, almost pressing her against his side as they weaved through the crowd and towards the exit. She couldn’t say that she minded; it was hardly the first time, so only a residual annoyance remained.

“I don’t know.” Deborah shrugged, and Arthur continued to look perplexed; as the entrance, and the loss of what little shelter they had from the sun, loomed closer, Deborah nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, “Are you joining Martin and I at the beach later?”

“Um, I might do.” Arthur answered, pulling her out of the way of a particularly anxious looking woman with four suitcases who wasn’t going to move for them to pass, “But I might not, because, I figured I might take a look around the shops instead.”

There was a deflection in his tone that made Deborah pause, and tip her head back to inspect his expression, though all that she could read in the set of his eyes was that he wasn’t quite his bubbly self.

“I thought plane spotting on the beach would be _brilliant_?” she hinted, hoping that he would reveal whatever he had up his sleeve; to her disappointment, Arthur merely shrugged and smiled cheerfully, revealing nothing.

“Oh, it is! But I think you and Skip will have fun on your own.” He explained, as they ground to a halt to scan the area for the correct taxis, “It’ll be nice for you to spend some time together – you don’t need me there.”

“Hmmm, if you say so.” Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes affectionately, as Carolyn’s voice could be heard snapping through the air, and Arthur steered her in the right direction.

oOoOoOo

This was by far, the best idea that Deborah had had in a long time. She had never had so much fun with Martin, not in all the time that they had known each other. She supposed that it was in part because they were free of the trappings of professionalism, and partly down to the excitement that thrummed through Martin’s very being.

Friday had ended with the crew finding a restaurant for the evening, and then going their separate ways for the night; Deborah and Martin were sharing again, which made life easier in the long run. Martin had kept her up later than she had intended, making her set out and explain everything that she had prepared for the next day ‘so that we can leave early’.

And leave early they had. Deborah was aroused hours before it was reasonable by the alarm that Martin hadn’t told her he had set, and dragged by an overly chipper Captain already dressed and showered, to breakfast in the restaurant downstairs.

In a show of revenge, Deborah had made him carry the parasol and her shoulder bag down to the beach. Martin had protested a little, but was eventually swayed by a few choice comments about how nice he looked in knee-high trousers and a polo-shirt; the aviators were the best part, she thought, biting her tongue to stop her from remarking on the fact that he had kept the replacement pair she had bought him out of amused sympathy.

To Martin’s disappointment, the beach wasn’t empty simply because they arrived early; he had groaned and wrinkled his nose in annoyance, but followed, complaining all the way, as Deborah walked straight across the sand and laid out a picnic blanket as near to the middle as she could. He had even begun suggesting better places to park themselves, until the first plane roared overhead, and Martin had rushed to her side, tugging at her arm and pointing up at it, explaining at the top of his voice exactly which kind of manoeuvring and calculations that specific make and model would require to achieve such a clean landing.

Now Deborah was settled back beside Martin, legs outstretched and soaking up the sun, while Martin held onto the parasol, which was resting with its shield protecting their backs against the sand that the planes taking off kicked up. It wasn’t quite working, as it wasn’t wide enough to cover the two of them; as a result, each of them could proudly pretend limbs scratched red by the flying grains.

“You know Deborah, we should definitely come back tomorrow.” Martin announced; he was propped up by the bag that they had brought, filled with various bottles of water, ice blocks, and a bottle of sun-cream that Martin had slipped in at the last minute; Deborah couldn’t help but admire how completely at ease he was, Martin rather than Captain Crieff. He had pushed his shades up onto his head as the parasol had rendered them useless.

“But bring a book or two?” she suggested, raising her hand and dragging it through her hair, brushing the subtle waves over her shoulders where they had been falling over her eyes.

“You can if you want.” Martin replied, shrugging and shifting so that he was tilted more towards her, buffeting the parasol’s pole as he did, managing to keep it upright but for a moments faltering, “ _I’m_ having fun as it is.”

“Yes I noticed.” Deborah drawled, grinning and rolling her shoulders back; she had been sprawled in the same position, almost lying beside Martin, facing the sea in the hopes of naming every plane before he could, for hours.

Martin chuckled contentedly, only making her smile more brightly in return; his next movement was quick enough that she only realised what he was doing once the camera had clicked, and his arm slid as smoothly as it had risen to his stomach, where he began scrolling through, peering at the screen.

“Oi, why are you taking pictures of me?” Deborah demanded, an open mouthed smile still pulling at her lips as she turned towards him, sitting up a fraction more on her knees, and reached across Martin’s chest to snatch the camera away from him.

Martin smirked and sniggered, his arms darting to the other side swifter than Deborah would have guessed they could, and he stayed curled away, gripping the device with both hands, until Deborah conceded, settling back down, but not without smacking him lightly on the upper arm as she did.

“I don’t know.” Martin shrugged, scrolling again, keeping his eyes locked on the images that Deborah could only just identify, “You look nice.” He remarked plainly; Deborah was unsure of how to respond, given Martin’s unusual forwardness, but didn’t have to, as his cheeks flushed, and he turned his head to make eye contact once more, “and I thought you could show your daughter what you’ve been up to, tell her about your adventures.”

He offered the camera to her, letting his hand flop across to hers, and Deborah took it, barely dwelling upon the warmth blossoming in her chest at the thoughtfulness that Martin was displaying, gazing hopefully at her with blue eyes free of any irritation or authoritarianism; she had come to terms with the fact that apparently, this was what being friends with Martin felt like.

It _was_ a nice picture of her, smiling and slightly tanned from the sun, relaxed and curled up on the beach.

“I think she’d like that.” Deborah, nodding and smiling up at him, wishing she were able to show through just an expression how touched she was by his consideration; Martin had shuffled across so that he could peer at the camera with her, and she had to tip her head back, careful not to bump his chin with her nose,  to meet his gaze; the presence at her back, as Martin propped himself up on his outstretched arm, was pleasant, familiar and not uncomfortable at all save for the wriggling that it caused in her gut, “Although, I think she’d rather see pictures of people and places than _me_ ; there’s nothing much interesting about me on a beach.”

“Yes there is.” Martin muttered, bringing his arm across her chest to tap at the camera; the pride in his voice was think enough to cut with a knife, and Deborah mused that perhaps insulting his photography was something she should not do, despite the good natured lilt of his tone, “It’s a good picture…you look lovely.”

Deborah hummed under her breath, but became very aware of every point at which she had been leaning back into the weak barrier that Martin’s arm and upper chest had created behind her.

“Yes, well…” she blinked against the sun, and smiled up at him, unsure of what else she could do.

Behind them, the purr of an engine rattling within its shell, and building energy rapidly as it trundled down the runway, slid smoothly into the air, sending a wave of heat wandering sporadically over the beach. Martin glanced quickly over his shoulder, and right the parasol, gripping it tightly so that it wouldn’t tip over.

“That one’s going to take off any minute now, tuck in.” he instructed, shuffling in closer to her. Despite his efforts, his right side, and her left, were still exposed to the elements; this being the twelfth time they had gone through such a routine, Martin’s limbs scuttling about to get everything set up, Deborah decided to try a different method.

“Martin, stop fussing, sit still.” She told him firmly, sitting up on her knees and turning to face him, keeping an eye on the planes moving about on the other side of the fence across the beach; Martin did as he was told, sitting legs outstretched, still propped up on the bag, gripping the parasol while raised an eyebrow expectantly, “Now put your arm out and let me scooch up.”

Slowly, Martin extended the arm that held the parasol, watching with his lips open in surprise, as Deborah turned again and slid into place right beside him, letting her back lie across his chest, and taking his wrist between her fingers to pull his arm around her form. She held herself with a slither of stiffness, hyperaware of every point of Martin that connected with her, worried that if she jostled him too much, he might push her away, affronted, as she adjusted the parasol and managed to cover them just in time for the burst of heat and cloud of sand to charge over the beach.

The pattering clatter as the sand buffeted the parasol, and the high pitched screech of someone who couldn’t have been on the beach long, were nothing compared to the rumble of the aircraft as it lumbered overhead, close enough that the digits painted on its base could be read by eye. Martin leant back reflexively at the proximity of the plane as it soared away, slower than one would expect, his arm looped firmly around Deborah’s middle, pulling her down with him until they were both propped up against the bag, wincing against the sound and the sun that glinted off of the metal exterior.

Grinning, Deborah relaxed back into Martin’s embrace, enjoyment pulsing through her chest; she turned her head, and mused that from here, it would barely be a stretch of an inch if she wanted to press a peck to the bottom of his beaming cheek. Which she wasn’t going to do.

Martin’s face was glowing, and he chuckled as he looked down at her, not yet insisting that she moved, merely releasing his tight hold on her and allowing his arm to relax, abandoning the tension in his shoulders as he lay back.

“That was, uh, that was a good idea.” He remarked, going so far as to squeeze lightly at the area of her middle that his fingers had fallen to; Deborah flinched towards him, biting back a laugh, and swatting his hand away.

“Do you want me to move now?” she asked, even as she tucked her arm around his chest, moving it from where she had been awkwardly scrunched.

“No, it’s alright.” Martin shook his head hastily, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, “There’ll be other planes, you might need to move back again.”

Deborah hummed under her breath, and watched as Martin took his eyes from her face and instead stared out over the sea, waiting for the next plane to come in to land. He shifted so that it was easier for her to lie with her back to his chest, curled slightly towards him, her arm resting over his chest as she allowed herself to relax, and breathe at the same steady rate at which his chest rose and fell.

Martin’s arm remained loosely wound around her middle, his fingers tapping out a truncated rhythm against the line between her top and her shorts; Deborah sighed and allowed herself to enjoy the comfort of having Martin _right there_.

She was deprived of affection. That would be her justification for wanting to burrow further and just stay there, because really, there was no other reason for her to want to cuddle Martin of all people. Then again, he was her friend, that much she was sure of thanks to the warm, infectious affection in her chest that wandered to the pit of her stomach and swam around; she supposed that when looked at that way, friends found comfort from their friends, even if they were as caustic together as she and Martin were.

It didn’t matter right then. Deborah sighed again, and let her fingers curl around the collar of Martin’s shirt, flattening it and fiddling, until she gave in and tucked her head into the curve between his neck and his shoulder, sinking just a little further from where they were propped up.

Martin lifted his chin so that she could fit, and moved his arm so that it looped around hers, grunting with the effort, but dropping his head down to rest atop hers without question. Deborah smiled gratefully, and lifted her head again, so that she could trace her eyes over his face, see what he was thinking.

Deciding ‘what the hell’, Deborah placed a small kiss on the underside of Martin’s chin, and then tucked herself away again, settling down to look out over the water. Martin jumped a bit, tensing before relaxing, pulling away slightly so that he could peer, eyebrows knitted, at her.

“What was that for?” he asked, in the same tone he used whenever she did anything even slightly nice for him on the flight-deck. Deborah shrugged, but didn’t bother picking herself up to address him properly.

“For being nice to me.” She remarked lightly; this must have been enough, as slowly, Martin shifted so that he was supporting her from behind once more, and lowered his chin to rest atop her hair.

“I’m always nice to you.” Martin murmured, but Deborah merely hummed in a neither here nor there manner, and he accepted the end of the conversation; then he jolted a fraction, and pointed out over the water, “Oh, there’s another one!”

“New game.” Deborah declared, eyeing the craft as it nearer, growing larger in size each second, “Based on the way it’s flying, you have to guess what the pilots are like.”

“How does that work?” Martin retorted, snorting as he shuffled in preparation for his inevitable attempt to tip back so as not to be hit by the plane should it crash land, “You can’t tell what a person’s like based on how they fly a plane.”

“Yes you can. Karl can tell which one of us is flying based on what GERTI’s doing on the way in.” Deborah asserted, waving her hand dismissively before laying it back down over Martin’s chest, “I imagine that the lovely people of Columbus could tell that we were bickering when we came in to land.”

“Alright, I’ll admit, that wasn’t one of our best.” Martin conceded, but he still sounded unconvinced; Deborah poked him softly to retaliate against the rush of affection in her chest, and he scowled weakly down at her, then peered at the plane still approaching, “Ok…I think that the pilot is…tired?...no, old…or…”


	19. Molokai

**Molokai**

“Carolyn, you’re being completely unreasonable!” Deborah snapped, her voice raised as she glared at the older woman from across the room; her lips were pouted, and she kept her expression as steady and furious as possible, one hand fisted against her waist.

Carolyn was perched behind Deborah’s desk, fingers steepled and eyebrows quirked sardonically in a demonstration of unimpressed lack of care that trumped any that her employees had had to suffer in the past.

The loss of her desk was enough to rile Deborah up, but she had been sitting in Arthur’s chair, leaning on arms sprawled over Martin’s desk while they chatted over his paperwork, so she couldn’t even stand her ground in her own territory. Now, Deborah was standing, one hand on her hip, one palm open to the world, glaring at her boss from beside Martin’s desk, behind which the Captain still sat, hunched slightly with a pen twiddling between his fingers as he watched the two of them with wide eyes and pursed lips.

While this took place, Arthur was sitting in silence on the sofa, watching and acting on the realisation that the last thing he wanted to do was get between his mother and Deborah.

“As you have said, at least four times now.” Carolyn replied firmly, the only sign that she was annoyed the way she placed her hands lightly down on the desk top, “That doesn’t change my mind. You are doing this job.”

“No Carolyn, _we’re_ not, because _we_ refuse to spend our Christmas week flying Japanese golfers back and forth between Hong Kong and Tokyo!” Deborah retorted, huffing loudly, her chest heaving; she was fleetingly aware that Martin wasn’t helping, and glanced towards him, but couldn’t allow herself to focus on it, no matter how indignant it made her.

“Oh, do you speak for Martin as well now?” Carolyn asked, feigning surprise and cocking her head towards Martin; Deborah bit at the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from snapping back, dipping her head down and averting her eyes.

“I’m with Deborah on this Carolyn,” Martin interjected, raising his hand so far as to waggle his fingers in a call for attention, his eyes still wavering tentatively between the women as he rested his head on the palm of one propped up hand, “It’s not really reasonable to expect us to spend the whole week on GERTI; we’ll barely be within our legal hours…and it’s not really fair.”

Deborah smiled indulgently down at him, and he returned a thin lipped smile with a shrug, but even so, she couldn’t help but be enraged by Carolyn’s demand, and turned back to glare at her.

“Well, it’s irrelevant what the two of you _want_ , the job has been booked, we will lose a lot of money if I cancel it, and a big loss might mean a loss of employment.” Carolyn reasoned, switching tactics, and looking imploringly between the pilots, smiling wanly; Deborah held her position, taking mild comfort from being the only one standing, even though she knew she was fighting a losing battle, “Christmas is an expensive time of the year; we _need_ the money that this job will bring.”

“Exactly!” Deborah cried, raising her arm to point determinedly at Carolyn, “Think about Martin!” she gestured towards the Captain, whose eyebrows leapt to his hairline as he sat back, hands opening in surrender, “How’s he supposed to earn money to live off if he’s away at the busiest time of the year? He’ll miss out on all the Christmastime break-ups and the giant presents that people need vans for!”

“That’s not really-” Martin stuttered awkwardly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment; Deborah wasn’t much suited to care in that moment, and waved a dismissive hand at him (she was only being a caring friend) as Carolyn cut him off.

“ _Martin_ can argue his own case, thank you _Deborah_.” She stated, begging no argument as she held Deborah’s stare, pressing her hands together, “and if you are so worried about him, then feel free to share your salary for next week with him…” Deborah dropped her eyes, and glanced towards Martin, who shook his head and traced his eyes over the top of his desk; the flicker of guilt didn’t make it easier, but she couldn’t afford to slash her wages any more than they already were, “…I didn’t think so.”

“We’re not doing it Carolyn.” Deborah argued, keeping her eyes on the corner of Martin’s desk; she folded her arms across her chest and stood firm. She knew that there was little choice in the matter, but Deborah couldn’t _not_ fight it; it wasn’t fair to demand such things off of them.

“Yes you _are_.” Carolyn shot back, making Deborah want to storm from the room and hide in her car until the other woman came to apologise and tell her that she had changed her mind and that there was no job after all; that wasn’t really an option.

“But _Mum_ , it’s Christmas!” Arthur interjected from across the room. Deborah turned around to observe him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, pouting imploringly at his mother; thank you Arthur, was all that she could think.

“Arthur, you are all fully grown adults.” Carolyn replied, sighing and shaking her head as she looked past Deborah’s pointed glare, “It’s hardly important that you’re all at home to celebrate Christmas day.”

“It’s not _about_ celebrating!” Deborah exclaimed, anger flaring up in her chest once more as she swung her arm upwards in a show of pique; it was entirely about Christmas day though, that was one day that she should be at home for, _not_ forced to fly thousands of miles away, “It’s about us refusing to work an unreasonable schedule just because you say so.”

“Look Carolyn, I’m willing to look past the long hours so long as we get the right amount of rest, but it’s not fair to expect us to work Christmas day.” Martin remarked, leaning his elbows on the desk so that he could wind his hands together; Deborah watched and empathised with the furrowing of his forehead and pinched nature of his whole figure, “It’s the one day a year that we’re _supposed_ to relax. _I_ wouldn’t mind having the day to myself, Arthur’s excited, and I’m sure Deborah would much rather spend the day nearer her daughter than be miles away on her own.”

Carolyn groaned and rolled her eyes, shaking her head and pushing her hands over her eyes. It was hard for Deborah to pity her put upon demeanour when the dejection that had been roiling in her guts made itself more pronounced at Martin’s fair and balanced statement.

He was looking rather pleased with himself, and Deborah couldn’t hold it against him for caring; she stepped back so that she could slump, resting back against his desk with her arms extended sharply behind her to support her weight. When Martin patted her hand in a show of solidarity, she only brushed it away.

Deborah _did_ want to be at home over Christmas, but purely so that she could wallow in the sanctity of her own private abode, surrounded by comfort and familiar items that she could drown in. She would call her daughter, of course, but Chris had been unsympathetic when he had decided that they couldn’t see each other; nothing malicious, he was just taking her skiing. It was part of their agreement that Deborah saw Verity each holiday, but she couldn’t even find the energy to take such a treat away from the girl so that she could see her mother instead.

“Fine!” Carolyn eventually conceded, making no secret of her irritation as she threw her hands into the air and pushed the chair back from behind Deborah’s desk; Deborah looked up and raised her eyebrows darkly, “You can have Christmas day to yourselves, but _only_ if you fly the week leading up to it. I won’t be swayed on that point!”

“That’s still not fair.” Deborah muttered furiously, but Martin slapped the back of his knuckles gently against her elbow, and she dropped her head down, glaring through loose locks of hair at the floor.

“That’s more acceptable.” Martin answered sternly, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders; probably making up for how un-authoritative he had been, letting her do all the work, Deborah thought fitfully, “We’d be…well, not happy, but we’ll do it. Won’t we _Deborah?_ ”

He glared pointedly up at her, quirking his eyebrows and smiling wanly in what he probably thought was an enticing and convincing way; Deborah wanted to say ‘no, no I won’t’, but she didn’t think that she could face openly disagreeing with Martin and then watching his face fall when he trusted her to go along with his orders.

“Yes, fine!” Deborah snapped glaring pointedly away from everyone, pouting at whatever fell into her line of sight, “But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

“Good, I can cope with that.” Carolyn retorted; she clapped her hands together once more, and then strode into her office, ignoring the burning stare that Deborah made sure bored into her back.

Deborah exhaled and let her shoulders sag, turning to look back to Martin; the understanding, pleased expression on his face was barely enough to placate her distemper, and it was with a rush of misery that she decided that their trip better provide some sort of entertainment, lest she go mad.

oOoOoOo

Deborah was still peripherally mad at Carolyn for going back on her promise of a free Christmas, but watching the disaster unfold around her went some way to remedy her bad mood, providing a sort of sadistic pleasure at watching the boys flounder.

Or…perhaps not sadistic…more…fond. If the warm and pleasant flittering in her chest was anything to go by, then Martin and Arthur’s pathetic attempts at a flight-deck Christmas were more…funny…than anything else.

It wasn’t so bad being on GERTI. True, Deborah couldn’t talk to her daughter until tomorrow, but she _did_ enjoy being around Martin. He was the sort of friend that she could enjoy spending time with whilst sitting on opposite sides of the room without talking to one another.

And besides, whilst they had duped Mr Alyakhin, she had had a wonderful realisation; it didn’t make up for the lost time, but it would cheer Arthur up, and perhaps the infectiousness of his mood would lift everyone else’s spirits.

Carolyn and Arthur were doing…something, in the Galley while the pre-landing checks were completed, waiting to be called in for their seven minute Christmas. While Martin flicked the final switches and pressed the last buttons, Deborah rearranged the dented and stapled umbrella, and kicked their flight-bags to the sides of the room.

“Are we ready?” Martin asked, turning in his seat and eyeing the door; Deborah couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. She saw past his dismissals of interest in Christmas as the attempts to appear more Captain-like that they were, but there was still something endearing about his eagerness to celebrate with the crew, even going so far as to break at least a dozen protocols within the flight-deck for the sake of authenticity ** _._**

“Yes, I think we are.” Deborah replied cheerfully as she walked slipped between their seats; she paused before she sat, and pursed her lips thoughtfully, looking to Martin for approval, “Maybe I should let Arthur sit in my seat? That would cheer him up after being locked in the cupboard for most of the day.”

Martin looked confused for a moment, but then he drew his bottom lip through his teeth and nodded quickly.

“Sure, he’d like that.” He agreed, then Martin leaned back in his chair and extended his arm towards the far arm of his seat, patting its edge and nodding imperceptibly towards it, “You can hop up here if you’d like – if it’d make things easier, I mean.”

“Thank you.” Deborah replied, pretending to tip her hat; she had forced Martin to discard his own when she had removed hers, by drawling and batting her eyes, and telling him that they couldn’t celebrate Christmas when he was dressed to the nines.

Martin smiled, and as she squeezed past the control panel, she watched as his cheeks flushed when their knees collided softly. It wasn’t an elegant move, and Deborah tripped forwards once before she could even reach the arm of the seat; Martin lurched forward and caught her, one arm going around her waist and the other settling at her shoulder to push her back to her feet while she aimlessly patted at his upper arm for support.

Deborah chuckled as she climbed onto the arm of his seat, lacing her arm over Martin’s shoulder as his darted around her back when she threatened to wobble backwards, loving how he smiled and laughed lightly under his breath; long gone were the days when she would feel uncomfortable being close to him.

Martin still blushed whenever he thought, well, _anything_ , but any misgivings about getting within three feet of each other had apparently faded into nothingness. It was a sign of their strengthened friendship. The only thing left that made Deborah think twice about interacting comfortably with Martin was the fact that it was…nice. She _liked_ the fluttering in her stomach, and how…not unhappy, being close to Martin made her feel.

That was good in terms of their relationship, but bad in the sense that it was bloody confusing. She had spent the last few weeks trying to work out whether Martin was becoming…god forbid…her closest friend.

She had never had time to gain one before, too busy drinking and jetting about the world, but if she had, Deborah imagined that she would have been as attached to them as she apparently was to Martin.

“Are you up? You’re not going to fall off?” Martin inquired, playfully tugging at her waist, fiddling with the buttons on her jacket.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Deborah retorted, shifting her arm around his shoulders so that she was more comfortable, despite her claims; she noted inwardly how nice it was having him pressed up against her, it made her want to just turn a little further and wrap her arms around him, as did the thrilled flush on his face; those sort of thing should be ignored, “Call them in.”

“Arthur!” Martin yelled, turning in his seat quickly enough that it made her wobble again, and she had to grip the fabric at his shoulders, which only served to make him turn hastily once more, knocking her again; eventually though, Deborah was balanced, and Martin continued, “We’re ready! In you come!”

The flight-deck door burst open and Arthur practically fell through it; Deborah smirked as he looked with bewilderment around the flight-deck, before he spotted her perched on the edge of Martin’s seat.

“You can have my seat Arthur.” She explained, nodding towards it; Arthur’s face lit up and he needed no extra instruction to drop into the vacant seat, stretching back and shifting until he was sitting tensed, ready for action.

“Okay, Arthur, your seven-minute Christmas starts … now!” Martin declared, setting his watch with a determinedly anticipatory glow about his cheeks; once again, Deborah couldn’t help but muse on how much the man was enjoying himself.

“Hooray!” Arthur cheered, and from one of his gargantuan pockets he retrieved a tasselled party hooter, the sound filling the small metal room with a reedy sort of screech.

“Where did you get that from?” Martin asked, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he peered at the object in Arthur’s hand.

“Oh, I always carry one of these. You never know!” Arthur answered with his usual wide grin, as he shoved the object back into his pocket and leaned forwards, his hands clasped eagerly.

“Aaaaand off we go!” Martin declared; he spoke at three times the usual speed, and Deborah watched fondly as he reeled off each of the decorations and rituals that he had put in place, preening under Arthur’s praise.

She couldn’t help but remark dourly upon each, as in truth, the set up was so appallingly make-shift, that if it hadn’t have been for the enthusiasm radiating from both men, the warning lights and the shoddy excuses for food would have been disappointing at best. Still, the wan smile didn’t quite fade from Deborah’s lips as they enjoyed themselves, and she leant her cheek against the side of Martin’s head, her fingers tickling ever so slightly at the other side of his hair as she had to crook her arm around his shoulders to keep from toppling as Martin’s movements became more excitable.

A surge of affection filled her chest at the face that Martin made when he saw Arthur’s gift for him; he extended his hands to receive the mess from the steward, who grinned as if he had been awfully clever.

“… Oh … goodness. Is that my hat?” Martin inquired, physically straightening himself up and squaring his shoulders, pursing his lips as he forced back what must have been an aching desire to rescue his hat from destruction as it was placed in his hands.

Deborah leant forward to brush a loose strand of soggy spaghetti from the back of Martin’s hand, wincing in favour of sniggering at the water damage to the cap; Martin shared with her an imploring glare, eyebrows knitted as he offered the hat for inspection, but she merely shrugged and directed his attention back towards Arthur.

“Yes, but made silly!” Arthur declared, raising his hands into the air and gazing expectantly between the pilots; as Martin opened and closed his mouth, Deborah failed to repress at small smirk, eyes fixed on his flustered surprise.

“Silli _er_.” She drawled; Martin shot her a _look_ , accompanied by pursed lips and furrowed brow, and he squeezed sharply at her knee; Deborah merely batted him away and tugged at his shoulders, which pressed him more into her side, but served its purpose in making him turn back to the atrocity in his hands.

The gift giving continued, and Carolyn arrived breathless having seen off Mr Alyakhin; all in all, Deborah thought that everything went quite well. Everyone was cheerful, if only due to a forced sense of fun to make up for the loss of an entire day.

Which only made her smile more brightly as she rested against Martin, whose arm had returned to help her balance, less of a guard now, more of a weight curled loosely around her back, his fingers curled almost unconsciously around the side of her waist, fiddling slightly with the material.

Their mood would lift substantially once she revealed what she knew; it was typical really that Martin hadn’t remembered, but she supposed that it a certain pride came from being the heroic figure.

The alarm on Martin’s watch bleated fitfully, and the crew let out a collective sigh.

“And midnight.” Martin declared, tapping the alarm off by batting his wrist against his knee; it was testament to its cheapness that it silenced in seconds.

“Ohhh. Well, thank you, chaps. Best Christmas ever.” Arthur congratulated them, stretching back in Deborah’s seat and rolling his shoulders back until they clicked; Carolyn stepped back to perch on the jump-seat, and Martin shifted so that he was turned in his seat, making it easier for Deborah to settle back against his arm.

“Really?” Deborah inquired, quirking an eyebrow at him; it still baffled her, along with an air of resignation, how Arthur could take pleasure in such simple efforts; she didn’t allow herself to muse over how that might feel, “You did spend a fair amount of it in a tin box.”

“Yeah, all right.” Arthur conceded, shrugging dismissively, “Well … well best this year, anyway.”

“Not necessarily.” Deborah drawled, ignoring the confused glances that both Martin and Carolyn were sending her, to meet Arthur’s perplexed expression; the disaster of today would be worth his joy, “What about next Christmas?”

“Well, that’ll be next year.” Arthur corrected her, his eyebrows dipping in the middle; Deborah sighed but smiled nonetheless, pressing her hands together over her knees.

“Interestingly, no.” Deborah remarked lightly, “You see, I have a little extra present for you, Arthur – and that is the information which, of course, as a professional pilot, Martin will hardly have forgotten,” she gave Martin’s shoulder a little pinch, and raised her head from where it rested atop his to take in the blank stares, “that as you fly from Tokyo to Hawaii, you pass over a thing called the International Date Line …”

“Oh … oh!” Martin exclaimed, his eyes widening as he whole face seemed to light up; she knew that it would be worth it in the end.

“… at which point you put the clocks back twenty-four hours. In a way, that makes this twelve oh-one on Christmas morning.” Deborah concluded proudly, surveying the flight-deck and relishing the astonishment on each face. Arthur seemed fit to burst.

“No!” Arthur was practically breathless with excitement, and Deborah smiled across at him, leaning back into Martin, who was doing his best not to beam too wide, his eyes flickering about the control panel as if he were avoiding thinking too hard, though what about Deborah couldn’t imagine.

“So my present to you, Arthur, is that we are all of us about to have the whole of Christmas Day off, in Hawaii.” She remarked; the shade of red that Arthur’s face was turning was a mite worrying, but Deborah decided that it was better to stay where she was rather than reaching across to pat him lightly on the elbow as she had intended.

“Oh!” Carolyn added to the mix of surprise and cheer; Deborah smirked at her over Martin’s head, but still enjoyed the overall feeling of success that having the crew happy, all of them for once, brought. And she was the one that had done it.

“… some of us having had the benefit of a dry run.” Deborah muttered for Carolyn’s benefit, and was rewarded with a roll of the other woman’s eyes and an almost imperceptible huff from Martin, who relaxed against her and rested his head against she shoulder. It took all of her power not to snuggle back.

And then Arthur seemed to explode from the need to share his joy with the world, and burst into song, splaying his arms wide.

“Get dressed you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay …”

Deborah had to admit, for a day that had started off so dismally, it hadn’t be too bad; so she had been trapped in a flying cupboard for most of it, at least it had been entertaining. And she couldn’t complain of the company.

oOoOoOo

Late at night, in their shared room (Carolyn had given them the choice of a decent hotel of separate rooms), Deborah tipped her head in response to Martin’s cheerful smile as he passed from the cramped bathroom to his bed.

He padded as quietly as he could, even though he clattered about reaching for his ancient laptop, and Deborah watched him only peripherally from the corner of her eyes as she sat cross legged atop her own bed, phone pressed to her ear.

It wasn’t Christmas Day anymore for Verity, but it seemed that she was filled to the brim with skiing joy that she barely noticed, and talked cheerfully to her mother, oblivious to the sleep evident in her tone. Deborah was simply basking in the pleasant warmth that radiated from the centre of her chest at the little girl’s chatter; the day wasn’t a complete loss at all.

Verity of course didn’t ask after her, what seven year old did? But she was pleased to talk about everything that _she_ had done, taking great joy whenever Deborah crooned down the line at her, so that was something. She still wanted her mother to know _everything_ that was going on in her life.

“That’s lovely honey,” Deborah sighed into the phone, relaxing back into the pillows that she had piled against the wall at the head of the bed; she picked at the knees of her pyjamas, carefully balancing exhaustion with the need to remain alert and not miss a thing, “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“ _I did.”_ Verity agreed, and Deborah could imagine her nodding her little head, hair falling this way and that as she still refused to brush it; or so a twenty minute conversation about how Daddy forced her to brush it but she didn’t want to revealed, “ _Except I kept falling in the snow, but that was okay because Daddy gave me lots of hot chocolate because he was sorry that my clothes got all wet and cold when I got upset about it.”_

“Hmmm, that’s my girl.” Deborah murmured, bringing her free hand up to clasp around her raised elbow as she settled further; from the corner of her eye she saw Martin glance across at her, a small smile alighting on his lips, and she couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, “But you didn’t catch a cold did you?”

 _“No, but Daddy put medicine in my juice when he thought I wasn’t looking, just in case.”_ Verity explained seriously, and Deborah nodded thoughtlessly; she supposed that it was sensible; Chris _was_ a good parent, she wouldn’t have thought of that, _“Mummy? I had to fly on a plane to get here.”_

“I know you did.” Deborah replied simply, allowing Verity to continue when she saw fit.

 _“Hm, because, I thought of how you were flying on Christmas today,”_ Verity muttered, and it sounded as if she might have been focusing partly on something else, like a toy or a book, talking into the phone as if it were a business call, “ _and I thought of you flying the plane, but you weren’t flying our plane, because you fly your plane, and we weren’t on your plane, we were on a different one.”_

“That sounds about right.” Deborah remarked, chuckling faintly and picking at her sleeve.

 _“Yeah,”_ Verity agreed, and then after a short pause, “ _Mummy? Where are you?”_

“I’m in a hotel in Hawaii.” Deborah answered, glancing around the sparsely furnished room; she smiled fleetingly at Martin, who looked away quickly, blushing slightly at being caught watching her. Just for that, Deborah allowed her gaze to linger on his form for a few more seconds. He was sitting with his knees pulled up high enough that he could read the words on the tilted screen before him, the fingers of one hand tapping lazily against the plastic.

 _“All on your own? Where are the other people?”_ Verity inquired, her voice rising an octave in vicarious offence.

“I’m not on my own, Martin’s here.” Deborah corrected her, scoffing silently as Martin’s head snapped up at the mention of his name.

 _“I don’t know Martin.”_ Verity muttered, sounding truly troubled by that fact. Deborah sighed, and rolled her eyes, but chuckled nonetheless.

“Well I’ll put you on loudspeaker, you can say hello.” She said, unfolding her legs from beneath her and waving her arm towards Martin, clicking the speaker button on her phone; as the crackling filtered through the phone, Martin turned his head and tensed, eyes widening in surprise.

Deborah gritted her teeth and scrunched her nose, waving her arm in wider arcs, ushering him over; Martin cocked his head to the side, and placed his laptop carefully on the bedside table, sliding his legs off of the bed, moving like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“He’s just coming now,” Deborah raised her voice so that she could be heard, and placed the phone in the middle of the bed; Martin jolted to his feet, and ambled across at that, tentatively perching on the edge of her bed when Deborah scooched closer to the wall, “Say hello.”

 _“Hello Martin_.” Verity’s voice wafted happily into the air, and Martin dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, looking desperately to Deborah; she nodded encouragingly, waving him closer.

“Hello…Verity…how-uh, how are you?” Martin stuttered, bringing his legs up onto the bed and settling with his legs crossed, hands curling around his knees; he gazed desperately to Deborah as mirrored his posture on the other side of the phone.

She nodded quickly, smirking at his attempts to calm himself; it was funny, she thought as she pushed away the hair that had fallen over her face, how Martin seemed more terrified now than he had when _they_ had first met. Deborah supposed that he was just afraid that he might say something terrible to insult either her or her daughter (his track record with children was appalling), but she had faith in him.

Besides, she _wanted_ him to talk to Verity; her daughter had asked about him a lot, and been treated to many stories, but unlike Arthur and Carolyn, whom she had met, she could never seem to remember a thing. It would be nice if they could get along.

Verity had never warmed to Harry, and he had left them alone when she came to stay; Deborah mused that it would be a shame if she couldn’t spend time with both Verity and Martin at the same time. She realised, as Verity’s thoughtful hum came through the phone, and Martin’s forehead furrowed as if he were listening to every fluctuation, that it might be nice to have a get together next time she had her.

There was no particular reason why, none that she could put her finger on, but it would be nice.

“ _I’m okay, thank you Martin. I’ve been skiing in the snow and got very cold, but I’m good at it anyway.”_ Verity answered, and the stiffness left Martin’s shoulders as he sighed in relief, apparently given enough proof that he hadn’t messed up that he could relax; Deborah watched in silence, “ _But I already know about that, I want to know about you.”_

“Oh, okay…” Martin replied, rubbing the back of his neck, and hunching slightly towards the phone, “What do you want to know?”

“ _Well, I know you work with Mummy, because she talks about you a lot, but I don’t know all the things about you, even though she says a lot of things.”_ Verity explained plaintively.

“Oh, really?” Martin inquired, raising an eyebrow and smirking at Deborah as he looked up; she nudged his protruding knee with the toes of one foot, but he only scoffed and smirked all the more, “And…what sort of thing had Mummy been saying?”

“ _I can’t really remember, because I wasn’t listening,”_ Verity remarked, and Deborah couldn’t help but roll her eyes as Martin shot her a sympathetic grimace, “ _But, but Mummy said you helped drop the stuff on my party. Daddy got angry, but I liked it anyway.”_

“I…uh…I _did_ help with that…” Martin told her, dragging his lip through his teeth; Deborah averted her eyes and shook her head, a smile peeking through; Martin understood, and spoke no more on the matter, “But, you, er, you know what?”

“ _What?”_ Verity repeated as only children can.

“Well, you wanted to know about me,” Martin noted, and then adopted his ‘Captain’ voice, puffing out his chest and resting both hands on his knees so that his elbows poked out either side as he leant forward, eyes fixed on the phone, “And one thing about me that you should know, is that I like planes, and flying.”

Deborah tried unsuccessfully to repress a tired laugh, but Martin still looked up to catch her eye before looking down once more, as she raised her hand to hide her smile behind the backs of her knuckles, fingers curled ever so slightly. Of course Martin was talking about planes.

“ _Mummy likes planes too.”_ Verity interjected, and Martin nodded even though he couldn’t be seen, lips curling into his cheeks.

“I know she does.” He replied; Martin opened his mouth to say something else, but the little girl talked over him.

“ _Do you like Mummy?”_ Verity asked, brimming with a demanding tone of self-confidence.

Deborah quirked an eyebrow at Martin, more as a tease than anything else, and watched as his cheeks flushed pink, and he scratched at one arm with the other as she shifted her own arms around her chest.

“Um…yes…” Martin answered, his gaze flittering from the phone to her face, “I like her a lot.”

“ _Good.”_ Verity responded swiftly, “ _She’s pretty_.”

“Yes, yes she is.” Martin agreed, nodding through a thin lipped smile, and tentatively raising his head to meet Deborah’s gaze.

The surge of tender moths rampaging through her chest was hardly enough to distract Deborah from the tingle in her cheeks that she cursed with all her power; she knew that Martin was only appeasing her daughter, but still, the it was the thought that counted, and the thought pleasantly unsettled her stomach, and had her pulling her arms more tightly around her chest as she swallowed and looked down at the phone, leaning back against the pillows that she had stacked to avoid looking at the bashful flush that spattered Martin’s cheeks.

Although…she was ready to concede that perhaps he wasn’t lying when he said that he liked her. They _were_ friends after all…she really needed to get over the part of her that still felt like she had to make an effort.

“ _Prettier than Lizzie.”_ Verity agreed, and Deborah once more had to hide her scoff, though this time so that her daughter didn’t hear and decide that it was approval. Martin’s eyes flickered helplessly up to hers, and Deborah mouthed ‘her step-mother’, before looking away.

“Well, I wouldn’t know.” Martin said apologetically, and Verity could be heard sighing on the other end of the line.

“ _Okay, I’m hungry now, I’m going to find food.”_ Verity announced, and Deborah lurched forward to pick up the phone, holding it in the air between she and Martin, who wore crinkled expression of someone curiously bereft.

“Okay dear, I love you.” Deborah cooed, her fingers curling around the plastic, obeying the ache in her guts that didn’t quite want to say good bye yet, “Merry Christmas.”

 _“Mmmm, bye Mummy.”_ Verity responded, her voice wavering as if she were holding her phone away from her, “ _Bye Martin_.”

“Bye.” Martin replied, and Deborah echoed him moments later, just before the crackling was cut off by a swift click.

With a sigh that made her chest heave, Deborah kicked her legs out and rolled her head, meeting Martin’s blue eyes as he peered calmly at her, pursing his lips in contemplation as he rubbed his hands in circles over his knees.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, tilting his head to one side as if to unconsciously make them even; Deborah couldn’t find it in herself to tell him to mind his own business, and although she wanted to simply shake her head and see if he would move to her side and hold her for a while, like he had after the car accident, months and months ago, she couldn’t make herself do that either.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she retorted failing to smirk nonchalantly, and settling for intertwining her fingers and looking down at them. To her relief, Martin nodded slowly, and though he frowned, he swung his legs from the bed and hoisted himself to his feet.

“I’m going to turn in,” Martin announced as he strode across the room and flopped onto his own bed, closing the lid of the laptop that he had left beside it, “Make sure I’m up and alert tomorrow.”

Deborah nodded, and hummed under her breath as she drearily kicked the covers back and slid under them, yanking the pillows from behind her back to curl onto them, positioned awkwardly on the bed, with no intention of straightening out.

True, it had been nice talking to Verity, and the residual glow hadn’t quite faded from the lump beneath her throat…but there was nothing more depressing than when it was over. It wasn’t too bad she supposed. She would see her daughter in a month or two, as per agreement.

It wasn’t as if she would know what to do with her for more than the allotted stays, even if she had her; that was part of the reason that she didn’t have her at all.

“Your daughter’s lovely by the way.” Martin’s voice travelled from across the room echoing a little as if the shift into sleep-time had amplified each noise, and Deborah lifted her head to peer at him, taking in the cautious, but not nervous way that he wound his hands together and smiled wanly, “She clearly adores you.”

“I don’t know why…” Deborah retorted weakly, before she could stop herself; she blinked sharply as she saw Martins’ expression fall, and he shifted as if to slip out of bed again, stopping with one arm propping him up; now that she had started, there was no point stopping, “There’s nothing that I provide that her step-mother can’t.”

“It’s not really about what you can _provide_ is it?” Martin scoffed, gesturing flippantly with one open palm, barely meeting her eyes, his cheeks still red from before, “It’s about _you_ …and she clearly loves her _Mum_ , regardless of the fact she’s far away – not that that’s a _bad_ thing, I just…” Martin began to splutter, and Deborah raised an eyebrow sardonically, enough to push him back on track, “Hey, look at it this way – she thinks you’re the prettiest.”

She managed a truncated laugh, that didn’t quite meet the air, but it helped Deborah to lay her head back down on the cushions, and pull the covers back up to her shoulders. From across the room, she could hear the rustling that signalled Martin’s retreat into his duvet.

The dull ache in her chest hadn’t receded, but it was under threat from being conquered by the prickles of warmth that just the thought of him on the other side of the room produced; in reality his words meant very little, his knowledge of her situation sparse as it was, and yet, Deborah couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy at his attempts to comfort her. Good old Martin, she mused.

“Martin?” Deborah spoke quietly, but in the stiffness of the silence, the sound carried. There was another rustle as Martin rolled over.

“Yes?” he replied curiously; Deborah wetted her lips, and focused upon the fleeting thought that had stolen her voice before.

“Are you sure you want to spend tomorrow at the pool…” she inquired, rubbing the thin covers between her fingers, “…on your own?”

“I can’t see what else I’m going to do.” Martin remarked wryly; he was just about visible, turning his head towards her, lying on his back, “Why?”

“Well, I was thinking…seeing as it’s technically Christmas again, we could have a nosey around and see if there’s anything interesting to do…together.” Deborah explained nonchalantly, peering across the room and listening for some reaction.

There was a pause, but after what sounded like a hearty exhale, Martin answered.

“That sounds nice.” He stated plainly, as if he were holding back, “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Deborah replied, and without another word, she rolled so that she was facing the wall, cocooned in her covers, and closed her eyes, forcing herself into darkness.

Perhaps Christmas could be salvaged after all.


	20. Interlude 7

**Interlude 7**

That line needed straightening up, but the only way to do that would be to make the line thinker, then she would need to make the other lines thicker so that it matched all the way around; Deborah mused detachedly that she should probably invest in pencils if pens were going to continue proving such pests.

Quick doodles and abstract pictures were fine, if they were covered in stray marks then that could be interpreted as really intense attention to detail; the cartoon style that she was attempting didn’t lend itself to such bold faced deception. It shouldn’t have been so important, but Deborah found that she did get depressingly attached to her scribbles…and distressingly proud of them.

If she wasn’t proud of them, she wouldn’t draw at such regular intervals…or in such obvious places…such as the inside of Martin’s work journal…after slipping it from under his elbow. He hadn’t been pleased about that.

Deborah hunched over her desk; she probably could have found something to do that was relevant to work, but Martin normally handled the paperwork, and she simply filled in whatever was put in front of her when the time came. Hunting down things to do seemed like an awful lot of hard work, and if it was important, then no one was going to sit around and wait for _her_ to realise that it needed doing.

She _had_ been sociable for the first few hours of the day; standby always dragged on, and it was only after a week that everyone became tired of finding things to discuss, and instead went about their own business. Carolyn and Arthur were on GERTI, doing some sort of training exercise that Deborah couldn’t be bothered to inquire about (she was sure to hear the whole story from Arthur anyway), and she and Martin had been left to entertain themselves in the porta-cabin.

Martin, of course, was sitting primly at his desk, hat at his elbow, scratching away at a book of notes that was half-full and tagged here and there; Deborah lifted her head and gazed across the room at him. It was surprising how pleasant he looked when at ease, lips curling upwards ever so slightly as he hummed a tripping tune under his breath, finishing each sentence with a little flourish of his wrist.

She wouldn’t mind chatting with him, sharing in his good mood, but there was little to talk about that hadn’t been discussed already.

So instead, Deborah turned back to her drawing. One arm laid against the table, hooked over the paper like a fence keeping it secure, and she tapped her pen against her nose as she thought of what scribble next.

Sometimes she could jot down intricate portraits of the crew, and then send it flying to them folded into an aeroplane, taking an odd joy from the crinkled bewilderment and annoyance (or in Arthur’s case, thrilled delight at seeing himself as a mottled caricature), but drawing purely to provide her hands with something to do.

The wall behind Martin’s desk was partially filled with pictures draw on strips of lined paper, pinned to the corkboard that he had inherited when he took the job. He had protested at first, but conceded to allow such a display of unprofessional décor when she had knocked out a quick sketch of an Avro Vulcan on Fitton’s runway.

Deborah had known that he’d like it. He pretended that he was simply enduring the products of her boredom, but his pleased smile had told a different story.

But when she was really bored, and needed genuine entertainment, all that she could produce were variations of the letters MJN, a multitude of imagined company logos, and what could only be called mock-ups of posters for the company.

Deborah supposed that if Carolyn weren’t so disinterested, and if she herself had the energy, they might start up some actual advertisement for the company; but the chances of that dream coming to fruition were hardly perceivable.

There had been a few moments in which Deborah had considered the dullness that that revealed in her mentality; of all the things that she could use to vent her creative repression, there was something truly sad about such subliminal promotion of their ramshackle company. She had loved media studies at school, and supposed that this was merely a reflection of that; the completion of a poster, even if it was crumpled and thrown away, still instilled in her a sense of pride.

Then again, it kept her happy.

Today, it was block letters, the word MJN curled into the left hand corner of a sheet of paper like a bold balloon. Yesterday during the monotony of the lunch break, she had tried her hand at cursive, but the style didn’t quite suit the feel of MJN; too fancy, not quite robust enough.

Deborah stroked her pen across the page once again, tipping her head so that it rest against her raised arm; perhaps if she made the corners rounder, the lines wouldn’t look so silly?

A shadow fell over the desk, and Deborah looked up to find Martin standing on the other side, two notebooks clutched in his hands as he turned his head to try and see what she was drawing. She plastered on a smile and pushed the paper and pen to one side, straightening her back and stretching her wrists out until they clicked.

“Did you need me Captain?” Deborah inquired, batting her eyelashes for added effect. If he were in a bad mood, Martin would have just dropped whatever paperwork he had onto her desk and expect her to complete it; the deviation from the norm, and his light smile, made her think twice about ignoring whatever request he was likely to make.

Martin jolted slightly, arms hunching in for a moment as he blushed at being caught peeking at her doodles, but he laughed stiltedly and shook his head.

“No, I – well, yes.” He lifted the books that he held into the air between them, and then placed them onto the desk, using the now vacant fist to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat, “I’d like it if you filled out your log book.”

Deborah hummed under her breath, and turned her attention to the books in front of her, which she now recognised (and it really had been a long time), as her and Martin’s log books. Resting her elbows on the desk and slouching forward a fraction, she plucked them from the desk top and inspected them, forehead furrowing in bemused disinterest.

Martin’s was neat of course, but hers exuded little clouds of dust when she opened and shut the pages; in retrospect, that probably wasn’t a good thing.

“But Martin, you _know_ I don’t do that.” Deborah protested in as bored a tone as she could muster, placing the book back down and lacing her fingers together, resting her chin on them and looking back up at Martin, “And besides, I can’t even remember half of the flights we’ve been on in the past month…let alone the ones before that.”

“That’s why I’ve given you mine.” Martin remarked, reaching out to tap the books, lips pursed; it was an expression that Deborah recognised as the one he used when enforcing his will without there being any real emotion behind it, “You can copy what I’ve written across to yours. You can finish…drawing…when you’re finished.”

“Oh, Martin, I’ll do it eventually.” Deborah groaned, rolling her eyes, but Martin shook his head and folded his arms at his front.

“You need to do it as soon as possible, in case the CAA turn up and decide to check your logs.” He explained, rocking back on his heels and tracing his eyes over the contents of her desk; Deborah caught his gaze, but he looked away, and she suspected with a pang of affectionate mirth that he was probably trying to avoid being swayed, “You might as well do it now, because I’m not going to back down over this.”

His tone was prim and proper and Martin knew that he was pushing his limits, which only made Deborah smirk and chuckle lightly; she quirked an eyebrow and trained her eyes on his face, revelling in the way that the flush made the freckles on his cheeks a little lighter.

“Oh _aren’t_ you?” Deborah drawled; Martin drew his bottom lip through his teeth, and shook his head decisively, so Deborah exhaled a long-suffering sigh, and took the books in her hands once more, “I suppose I could make a start.”

Martin’s face split into a glittering smile, his blue eyes lighting up with the effort; much like she had a lot recently, Deborah was able to appreciate the benefits of just doing what Martin asked. Nothing that he requested was unreasonable (not of late) and it was nothing that would inconvenience her, so it was becoming harder for her to think of reasons not to earn such silent, but endearing praise.

“Thank you.” Martin stated briefly; his eyes took a final trip across her face, and then, under Deborah’s watchful gaze, he strode back to his own desk, fidgeting and patting down the documents atop it.

Deborah continued to observe for a few moments, and to her pleasure, Martin glanced up at her; whether he was alerted by her own stare, or just sneaking looks at her, she didn’t know, but there was something grand about catching him in the act.

She smiled warmly, and Martin cleared his throat, returning a small smile, just a twitch of his lips, before looking pointedly down at his desk. Counting that as a victory, Deborah decided that she might as well do as she was told, and began flicking through her log book, rubbing her fingers together to remove the dust that clung to them as she searched for the last entry.

Copying Martin’s log book turned out to be a lot more difficult than Deborah had anticipated. His handwriting was normally questionable, but in his attempt to fit everything that he had to say into the small lined spaces, the letters had devolved into minuscule reflections of a spider’s inky tip-toes.

She struggled in vain, managing to fill out at least half a page per page of his, regretting her decision more every moment, before giving up and pushing her chair back. With a sigh, Deborah picked up Martin’s log book, and abled across the room.

Martin glanced up as he heard her approaching, but Deborah kept her eyes on the illegible scrawl, holding the book an inch from her nose in the hopes that she might decipher its meaning before she rounded his desk and hunched over. She placed the book open in front of him, and pointed at ne area in particular.

“What does that say?” Deborah asked without further ado; Martin placed his pen down on the desk, and gave her a puzzled look but nodded quickly when she stared back, unimpressed, taking a moment to gnaw at his bottom lip while he squinted at the otherwise regimented page.

“It says seven hundred and thirty.” Martin replied picking the book back up and placing it back into her hands, going so far as to curl her fingers over it for her; Deborah frowned, even as Martin smiled wanly.

“That was a number?” She muttered, shaking her head, but Deborah wandered back to her own desk without waiting for Martin’s response; she heard a small humorous scoff, but a quick inspection once she was seated showed that Martin had his head down again.

To Deborah’s chagrin, this process went on for about an hour. Every few pages, she would have to get up, walk over to Martin’s desk, lean over it, arms outstretched and supporting her weight, as Martin unravelled the mystery that was his log book. Then she would return to her own desk, continue copying the details across, and have to repeat the routine when another illegible scrawl blocked the rhythm of the progress.

After the eighteenth time that Deborah rose to her feet, Martin dropped his pen down with a clatter, and slouched back in his chair, pushing a hand through his hair and glaring across at her; Deborah paused, and raised her eyebrows questioningly, shifting the log book so that she was holding it in both hands, supporting it between her fingers.

“You know, it might be easier if you just came and sat over here.” Martin announced, extending his arm in a wide arc so that he could gesture to his whole desk at once; if Deborah didn’t know any better she’d have said that he wanted nothing _less_ than to have her sidle up beside him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” Deborah inquired sardonically, cocking her head to the side for emphasis, relishing the way Martin rolled his eyes as if he hadn’t expected any less, “It’s just that I thought you _wanted_ me to fill out my log book.”

“I _do_!” Martin insisted, eyes widening as he gestured as if clawing the air, “It’s just in doing do, you’re putting _me_ off. Just bring your chair over here and we can go over everything that you can’t read without you having to get up and down all the time.”

Deborah rolled her eyes, and exhaled sharply, just so that Martin could hear the monotony of his request, but she threw the log book down regardless, and turned her back to him, placing her curled fists on his hips and surveying her desk. Behind her she heard Martin hum affirmatively, and she couldn’t help but scoff.

She wasn’t going to go and perch on the edge of Martin’s desk; if she was moving, she was moving completely. True, a part of Deborah just wanted to catch him off guard, or possibly just annoy him, but there was a fraction of self interest in her next actions, future laziness being the most imperative.

Without a word, Deborah pushed her chair to a safe distance, and stepped around the end of her desk; she noted inwardly that she probably should have removed the contents first, but shrugged and decided that it wasn’t worth the extra effort.

Hooking her hands underneath the edge of the desk, Deborah bent at the knees, and lifted, tripping backwards as best she could whilst maintaining her balance. After moving all of six inches, she dropping the end back down with a thud, and let out a breath that she hadn’t realised she had been holding.

It was a _lot_ heavier than it looked…and now all her things had rolled to one side in a messy pile, she noted with a pout. Deborah folded her arms over her chest and glared at the desk; well, now she had started, she had to finish.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Deborah jolted as Martin appeared at her side, his eyes wide, mouth threatening to contort in preparation for a scolding as his cheeks went red, “I said bring your _chair_ , not the whole desk!”

“I _need_ my desk.” Deborah replied shortly; then she turned back to Martin, who was still shaking his head, one hand raking into his fringe, and a thought occurred, “Martin?”

“Yes?” Martin answered dubiously, his motions stilling as he looked suspiciously down at her; Deborah merely smirked at the shift, and nudged his arm gently with the back of her hand.

“You’re a big…strong, van man…” Deborah drawled, making sure to glance pointedly over his form, and even lift her hand to trace her fingers fleetingly over the length of his upper arm, an action to which he managed to simultaneously freeze and judder in confusion, “How about you help me out by taking the other end of my desk and helping me put it next to yours?”

Martin spluttered a bit at the request, but he was already standing at the opposite side of the desk by the time he formulated a decent retort.

“But why does your desk need to be next to mine?” he asked, and if Deborah didn’t know better, she’d have said he looked, not quite defensive, but withdrawn, eyes following her as if she might pounce at any moment; she hadn’t realised quite how protective he was of his personal space.

“Because it’ll make our lives easier in the long run.” Deborah explained, placing her palms down on the desk, and smiling dryly in the hopes of lifting his spirits into the midst of cooperation, “Having our workspaces close to each other will make it easier to cross check things, as I have been doing today…and you never know, it might make it easier to talk if I’m not on the other side of the room.”

“Okay…” Martin nodded slowly, and then smiled tentatively, the sort of little smile that Martin would pull out every now and again that made the air in Deborah’s lungs try and escape and sent little flutters throughout her chest, “I suppose that’s okay.”

With a reflexive grin, Deborah mirrored Martin’s actions as he wrapped his hands underneath the other side of her desk, hooking one arm up to the elbow (she supposed that that was proper practice for someone accustomed to heavy lifting). She let out a small sound of surprise when his end rose into the air at thrice the speed that hers did, and told him to shut up when he scoffed and chuckled, making half of her stationery roll onto the floor when he tried to stifle his grin by rubbing at the lower half of his face.

With much gritting of teeth, and bundles of fussing from Martin, who kept leaning over the desk to check that she wasn’t at risk of dropping it on her feet, making her pause and place it on the ground to stretch out her arms and back, they managed to manoeuvre the desk across the room with little hassle; Martin said that he was only worrying over her health, but Deborah was sure that that was only an excuse to fuss and make sure that they performed such a menial action ‘by the book’.

She even said so, much to his chagrin, but Martin merely scrunched up his nose and made a dismissive ‘yeah, yeah’ sort of face at her, which only prompted more teasing; Deborah couldn’t help herself, really, it was like a compulsion.

By the time that they had finished, Deborah, to her disdain, was breathing a little heavily where Martin was not, and their desks were joined in a sort of obtuse triangle, facing the door to the porta-cabin in a way that reminded her of the work stations in Star Trek.

She glanced behind her, and took a moment to appreciate the sight of Martin bending over to retrieve the pens and papers that had been lost during the move; Deborah had to admit, it wasn’t a bad sight, not at all. Then Martin straightened up, turning to hand her the stationery, and Deborah looked away quickly, coughing awkwardly and taking the pens from his hands without raising her head, placing them ritualistically on her desk. She could hear Martin shuffling around behind her, so turned, putting on a winning smile, and leant against their now joined desks, arms pinned behind her for support.

Martin’s hands were in his pockets, and the look on his face could only be called bewildered and innocent as he surveyed the results, his lips pursed.

“Well,” Deborah started, gaining his attention and suddenly feeling all the more wrong-footed for doing so, despite how pleased she was that she had got her own way in this particular arrangement, “I think it looks rather good this way.”

oOoOoOo

Bringing the desks together had been one of the best decisions Deborah had made in a very long time, of that she was sure. It was odd, but somehow, being side by side shifted the atmosphere in the porta-cabin infinitesimally; even though she was still working her way through the log books, Deborah couldn’t say that she was unhappy.

Before, it seemed, the gulf across the porta-cabin had created a similar sort of gulf between them, allowing them to sink into their own little worlds. Now, Deborah (and Martin too if his sideways glances could be believed) was peripherally aware of what was going on beside her, but not in any way that made it uncomfortable.

If anything, she might have said that she was more attuned to Martin, as if even though bouts of silence stretched between them, the conversation hadn’t quite ended.

Whenever Deborah came across something that she couldn’t read, she could simply scoot her chair a foot or two, and peer over Martin’s shoulder as he took his log book from her and squinted down at it.

And Martin could roll across to her if he saw her procrastinating, sidle up behind her and tap her on the shoulder, reaching around her to remove the distraction of the moment; at one point that had ended with Deborah’s arms pinned against her chest as she leant down, forehead on the desk as Martin’s arms snaked around her to try and retrieve his phone after she had discovered that, unlike her newer model, it still contained the ‘snake’ game, laughing the whole while.

“No, no – _that_ bit!” Deborah corrected, reaching across Martin’s desk to jab at the side of the page; she had pulled her chair up behind his, and was perched right on the edge, leaning into the back of Martin’s shoulder until she could feel the warmth from his back pressed against her chest, her arms wound around the one of his, beneath, resting on the desk, and the other over the top, hand curling ever so slightly over his lower arm once she finished pointing.

Martin didn’t seem to mind, as he was far too busy inspecting his own handwriting, his eyebrows knitted and his lips pursed thoughtfully, tapping his pen stiltedly against the desk top.

“That’s my _signature_.” Martin remarked, tipping his head back slightly so that he could look her in the eyes; she shifted back a fraction so that their noses were no longer under threat of knocking together, “It’s on every other page – _how_ can you not recognise it?”

“Well what’s it doing on the side of the page?” Deborah demanded without any real heat, slipping her hand from his wrist to tap pull the book back towards her across the desk, “That’s not where the signature’s supposed to go!”

“Well I couldn’t fit it on the dotted line.” Martin insisted, his lips curling into a flickering smile as his cheeks lit up, his chest juddering just a fraction, “It had to go somewhere!”

“Maybe if you didn’t write so much-” Deborah chuckled, conceding to sit back and return her arms to their previous position, wrapped around his dominant, and rest her chin on his shoulder, but Martin interjected, shaking his head vehemently.

“Just because you do the minimal amount of work doesn’t mean that _I_ shouldn’t record whatever comments that I had in regards to the flight!” Martin argued, his smile growing as he tried to remain stoic, but couldn’t stop the fond sparkle in his expression as his eyes shone happily.

“ _Oh_ , of _course_ not, Captain!” Deborah drawled, pouting her lips playfully and widening her eyes in a pantomime show of sarcastic pity as she rose up, hands sliding around his bicep so that she could bat her eyes at him properly while remaining mostly rested upon him.

Martin shifted and rotated in his seat to balance the move, rolling his eyes as he reluctantly beamed; Deborah couldn’t remember when the giddy circuits had started somewhere between her stomach and her lungs, but it was far too pleasant to think too hard about.

After a few moments, Deborah realised that Martin hadn’t turned back to his desk, and was still meeting her gaze; she smiled again, though the last one hadn’t faded, and Martin’s eyes flickered downwards, and his cheeks flushed red. Moving without thinking, Deborah’s fingers curled a little tighter around his arm, and Martin’s eyes moved once again to her lips before meeting her searching gaze, his smile settling into a warmer constant.

The fluttering in her chest seemed to surge, and she wetted her lips thoughtlessly, unable to do much more than smile bashfully, watching fleetingly as Martin pursed his; she felt more than saw his hand brush the loose strands of hair from where they hung over her face behind her ear.

She wasn’t sure, as her mind was unusually blank, fuzzing slightly, but as she lifted her hand to hook lightly over his raised one, Deborah was sure that Martin was leaning up ever so slightly, and she shifted forward with the movement, unable to focus on one area of his face for more than a second.

Then the porta-cabin door swung open after catching on the broken lock, and Deborah dropped back into her seat, swallowing raggedly, slipping her arms from around Martin’s arm in seconds and pushing her chair back to her own desk, grappling for her own log book.

Her chest was thudding, and her brain had shuddered to a halt, like the ringing silence that was left in the wake of a halted speeding train. Deborah glanced up sharply as Martin’s log book was practically hurled in front of her, to find that Martin’s cheeks were scorching red, and he was staring studiously down at the paperwork under his hands, which were moving stiffly back and forth.

Deborah inhaled slowly, and then steeled herself, quirking an eyebrow as she looked up towards the door, inwardly cursing as she met the bewildered and somewhat derisory gaze of Carolyn, who was standing stock still in the middle of the open doorway, arms held stiffly where she was clutching a bursting folder.

“Dare I ask why you felt the need to redecorate?” Carolyn inquired dryly, after a pause that stretched far too long; the way that her head turned between she and Martin made Deborah’s guts flip uncomfortably, and she gripped the log books even tighter.

Martin shook his head swiftly, his head still ducked as he blushed, and hunched over his desk rather than sitting energetically as he was wont to do.

“Not at all.” Deborah replied smoothly; she placed her hands palm down on the desk when she realised that they were shivering almost imperceptibly; she suspected that she was the only one to notice.

Carolyn huffed at the rejection of what Deborah was sure she suspected was some scandalous conversation, but shrugged and crossed the porta-cabin nonetheless, pausing at their now joined desks to inspect the debris that was layered across both; the result of their few hours of mutually distracted work.

There was a clatter, and Arthur burst through the door in typical Arthurian fashion. At the sound, Carolyn sighed and wandered towards her office, and Martin paused in his determined silence to glance upwards and then hunch back over.

Deborah laced her fingers together and rested her elbows on the desk.

“Wow guys!” Arthur’s eyes widened and he bounded over to the joined desks, placing his hands on each desk in turn as if to verify whether they were really there, “You two look like you could be judges on the X Factor, or Britain’s Got Talent! You know, like on a panel.”

“That we could Arthur.” Deborah sighed, smiling weakly; though normally up for Arthur’s sometimes disconnected fascinations, in that moment she couldn’t quite dredge up the energy.

“I don’t think we could.” Martin argued, and Deborah thought that he sounded as dreary as she felt; she tried to meet his eye, to see what he was thinking, but Martin’s attention was trained entirely upon Arthur, his chin rested on his loosely folded arms.

Deborah listened half-heartedly as Martin debated with Arthur over the legitimacy of their resemblance to various television faces; the words washed over her without making much impact.

She was far too busy rolling the flittering fizzles that still broiled in her chest over and over in her mind, trying to work out how one moment she and Martin had been sharing a pleasant beam of cheerfulness, and the next…Deborah had no idea what had happened.

All she knew was that her heart was pounding and breathing was a little too laboured, and even though she wanted to meet Martin’s gaze and recapture the connection from moments before…the idea of doing so sent shivers of guilt throughout every pore.


	21. Qikiqtarjuaq

**Qikiqtarjuaq**

Martin’s foul mood that morning should have warned her that the day would take a downward spiral, but Deborah had hoped for the best. He was dead set against flying low to see the bears, and she could understand that, but she had ignored the grouching for the sake of patting Martin companionably on the knee and smiling brightly, telling him not to worry.

The last thing that Deborah had expected was for Martin to disregard all their progress together, all the fragile strings of friendship that they had constructed, and revert back to his caustic ways of their first few months together.

Oh, he had ‘come to consider them friends’ had he?

Friends didn’t sell each other out for the sake of bigging themselves up in front of the smart and pretty woman from the other airline.

The realisation that perhaps Deborah had been seeing her and Martin’s relationship through rose tinted spectacles made her abdomen feel as if it had caved in, sucking in light and dark with it. Dramatic, she was aware, but as accurate a description as she could find.

Every acidic word that she had sniped back at Martin made her want to bite out her tongue so that she could stop making his eyes widen and his lips dip into a watery frown; but at the same time, it pushed her further from the wavering emotions that had trickled through her bones.

The dig at his job had been too far, Deborah knew that, but it was no worse than what Martin gave to her; she always stopped short of the line, teasing, but never wanting to actually hurt him. But Martin had always made things personal, even when they were doing well together, and Deborah couldn’t hold back any longer.

As much as she tried not to, Deborah couldn’t help noting a twinge of loss at the shift. That morning, and for months now, just the sight of Martin had instilled in her the lurching desire to move closer, to bask for as long as possible in the pleasant aura that he provoked in her. Now, she wanted nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible, to cover her ears, get him out of her sight, and be alone, no matter how miserable that was.

So while Martin played the part of robotic automaton of professionalism, critiquing her every move that wasn’t listed in the manual, Deborah sat stiff yet hunched, one leg folded over the other, turned as far in her seat as she could without losing sight of the control panel, her back to him, arms folded tightly over her chest. The mechanical creaking, the flashing lights, and the grumbling hum of the engines did nothing to breach the stony silence that could have been carved by the same architects as were responsible for Stone Henge, as immovable as it was.

Martin was fuming after the cabin address, and the lemon rally with Carolyn was only stoking his temper; Deborah couldn’t find it in herself to care. If Martin wanted to lord it over her, then he could damn well reap the consequences.

If he was the sort of person that brushed his ‘friends’ to the side when a better offer came about, then he deserved everything that he got, even if the guilt outweighed the pleasure that his suffering brought.

Deborah barely paid attention when Carolyn returned with the lemon, and marched from the flight-deck with a dry smirk and a sarcastic waggle of her fingers, with no intention of hiding it anywhere that Martin could see it. No, she already had at least six ideas of how to draw out his suffering just a little longer; he was so easy to drag along.

When she entered the Galley, Deborah found Arthur, leaning back against the counter, fiddling with the tea cloth, seemingly preoccupied with the knots that he was making. It was only by luck that Deborah paused, forced to a halt by another wave of sad anger, and as she leant across the opposite counter, she took in the faint edge in his expression.

Shoving the lemon into her pocket, and wrapping her arms across her chest, Deborah slouched against the counter, nodding briefly when Arthur looked up and smiled in greeting.

“I thought you’d be out there entertaining the customers.” Deborah remarked wryly, quirking her eyebrows lazily; Arthur shrugged, and flung the towel to the side, turning away before he could see it drop down the side of the microwave.

“I’m on a Code Red.” Arthur explained, nodding towards the cabin; it was a shame, Deborah thought, Arthur loved spending time with the passengers, and there was no reason that the whole crew should be miserable, “So I have to stay here and try not to bother anyone.”

“Give it half an hour and then go back out.” Deborah instructed drearily; she tried not to shuffle her feet, but she didn’t really want to stay still, charged by agitation, “I’m sure Carolyn won’t mind.”

Arthur nodded and hummed in agreement, and Deborah sighed, letting her shoulders sag as she slumped somewhat more into the counter, leaning ever so slightly forward into her folded arms; she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, and standing with Arthur seemed as good a bet as any.

Except when she glanced up, Arthur was surveying her with a slightly tentative pinch of his nose; he instantly plastered on a smile when he realised that she was looking.

“Are you alight Deborah? It’s just…” Arthur trailed off when Deborah only frowned, bereft of any smart remark; he reached across the cramped Galley to brush at her sleeve, “…you’re looking a bit…sad. Shouldn’t you be helping Martin fly the plane?”

“I’m not sad.” Deborah retorted, with little enough energy that even she didn’t believe it, “I’m hiding the lemon.”

“In your pocket?” Arthur inquired, glancing pointedly towards the slight bulge in the side of her uniform; Deborah rolled her eyes, but shrugged nonetheless, keeping her fingers curled around the fabric at either elbow.

“Well done, you caught me.” She remarked, and then exhaled exhaustedly, unable to keep up the act for more than a few seconds under Arthur’s supervision; perhaps she would be less furious if she could release at least some of her pent up energy, despite how much the idea pained her, “Martin’s being insufferable.”

“Oh, yeah, but, you and Skip are always arguing!” Arthur replied, brightening as if he had been worrying for nothing, arms making a short but arching journey through the air, “It’s all just good fun really…isn’t it?”

He must have caught on to the fact that Deborah wasn’t sharing his mood, as Arthur faltered and his eyes narrowed once again, his eyebrows dipping in concern.

“Not this time, Arthur.” Deborah muttered, shaking her head, taking care to watch the loose strands of hair instead of meeting his gaze; her arms over her chest threatened to become constricting, but they kept her in place, “Martin’s being anything but fun.

“Oh…how come?” Arthur asked cautiously, biting at his lips and bringing his hands together at his front. Deborah scoffed, and focused definitively at the corner of opposite counter; wouldn’t she give the world to know why Martin was being such an arse.

“He can go on about proper rules and regulations, and how he’s going to ‘manage’ me, and ‘ _discipline_ ’ me, all he wants, but Martin’s an idiot if he thinks I’m going to just sit and take it.” Deborah muttered furiously, digging the fingers of one hand into the material at her elbow, focusing on the tugging sensation, “If he’s going to pretend to be my friend one minute and screw me over the next, he deserves everything he gets.”

“Well maybe he’s just-” Arthur started, but Deborah cut him off with a sharp glare that made him close his mouth, but not quite look away.

“No, Arthur, not ‘maybe he’s just’.” She repeated, spitting out the words as if they physically stung; with the guilt, and the rage, and the angst, Deborah was in no mood to listen to excuses on Martin’s behalf; if he was a big enough man to behave as he was, he was a big enough man to fight his own battles, “I’ve had enough of these Captain’s swanning in here and treating me like crap because they’re in charge.”

“But Martin’s not one-” Arthur insisted, brown eyes widening hopefully, only to be interrupted by a steady hand in the air, and a thin lipped stare.

“I _know_ , Martin’s been with us for years now, and I keep thinking that we’re friends, and that he’s a decent person, and that he just needed to settle in,” Deborah reeled off, and she could feel her lips trembling, hating how needy she sounded to her own ears; things were so much better when they had a steady stream of Captains, and she didn’t need to get too attached to any of them, “But then he just flips, and it’s straight back to stick up his arse Martin who picks on everything that I do, and makes jabs at my professionalism, and doesn’t give two damns about what he’s saying to me. I just – I thought that we were getting somewhere, but apparently not!”

Arthur nodded slowly, and swallowed, and he looked as much like a trapped deer as it was possible to look, hands pressing together as if to keep him from moving the wrong way.

“So…what is it exactly that Skip’s doing to upset you?” he asked slowly, watching her like a hawk as if she might implode at any moment.

Deborah opened her mouth to speak, and then faltered when she met Arthur’s gaze; she hadn’t been aiming for upset, she’d been aiming for furious, but damn it all, now that was out in the open, she felt like she was tipping off the edge of a waterfall. She unfolded her arms, and raised her palms to the world in an all-encompassing shrug, shaking her head.

“He’s…he’s just being horrible.” Deborah groaned, her voice light and free of the usual japery, making the words tumble without her permission, despite how much she hated how miserable she sounded, almost teary, “And I _hate_ it, because I don’t _want_ to be horrible to _him_ – I don’t want to upset him at all, but he _clearly_ doesn’t return the sentiment because he just won’t _stop_ , so I can’t stop _either_ …”

“Deborah…” Arthur interjected, and Deborah stopped and waited for him to speak, gazing up at him expectantly, praying for something to reverse, or even eclipse, her verbal splurge; Arthur cleared his throat, and looked uncertainly down at his hands, but continued nonetheless, “This is just my opinion, and you don’t have to listen, because I might be wrong – I probably am…but do you think that maybe, the reason you’re getting so upset over this when you never used to, is maybe because…well, because you like Martin as much as you do?”

“Of course I like him, I wouldn’t think we were friends if I didn’t like him,” Deborah retorted, attempting a scoff as she wiped a fist over her eyes, but failed, “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, nothing!” Arthur replied hastily, raising his hands in surrender; then he frowned, and said more seriously, glancing towards the closed flight-deck door and lowering his voice, “But, if you were thinking of embarrassing Skip in front of the passengers, I think maybe he wouldn’t like it, and that you’d probably regret it a lot afterwards – and I don’t want you to be even more upset because you did things when you were already in a bad mood.” he shrugged in a sort of ‘it is what it is’ kind of way, and Deborah eyed him curiously, thinking his previous words over, “Cos people do that, don’t they? And then everyone’s upset, when really they should all have just been friends in the first place.”

Deborah watched as Arthur seemed to lose his confidence, and turned to search for the discarded tea towel, leaning backwards so that he could peer around the microwave, to no avail. The last thing that she wanted to do was listen to him, and the angry broiling was still very much at home in her guts, right alongside the pit of despair…but he had a point.

Maybe it was just a bad day, and Martin would be back to normal tomorrow. As much as she wanted to antagonise him, and she really, really did, Deborah didn’t think that she could deal with the aftermath of anything truly horrific.

It might just break her heart if they weren’t friends in the morning; hell, she was missing him already.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Deborah remarked lightly, and Arthur straightened out and beamed, so she plastered on a smile, “That was just what I needed to hear.”

She turned on her heel and sauntered back to the flight-deck before he could even finish saying that he was always happy to help. Deborah was ready to concede that perhaps taking revenge in such a public manner wasn’t the best idea.

But there was no reason that she couldn’t make Martin see the error of his ways, for her benefit if nothing else.

oOoOoOo

The porta-cabin was eerily quiet for late afternoon. Carolyn and Arthur were clearing up GERTI, as always, but while Deborah was sitting dutifully at her desk, Martin was nowhere to be seen.

The flight back to Fitton had been one of the worst that Deborah had ever experienced. Martin had flat out refused to speak to her save for the few necessary words involved in the checks. She hadn’t assumed that anything would be alright between them, but Deborah had thought that after settling things, Martin might be amiable, if nothing else.

So when Martin disappeared after the post-landing checks had been complete, Deborah had decided to make her way to the porta-cabin and make a start on the paperwork. That would cheer him up.

Martin might even be so surprised that he would forgive her, and perhaps they could be friends again. As ridiculous as it sounded, even to herself, Deborah was missing him, and his good moods.

Deborah held herself as if ready to greet whoever might walk through the door, and as she filled in each detail exactly as Martin would, glanced up at the door that remained firmly shut, even as the sky began to grow darker. She was really beginning to worry about him.

After a few more minutes, there was a thudding, as the lock jammed, and then the door swung open, banging off the wall as Martin stormed in; he had enough peace of mind to slam it closed behind him, but the next moment he span on his heels and stormed over to their desks, his jaw set and his cheeks blaring.

Deborah placed the pen down and sat as straight as she could, palms down on the desk, and attempted her best smile, even as the dread in her chest quailed, and Martin glared down at her, chest heaving.

“Martin!” Deborah greeted brightly, but Martin shook his head and held his hand in the air, cutting of anything that she might have wanted to say.

“Right, Deborah, we need to have a serious word about your behaviour today, because it was completely out of order.” Martin said through gritted teeth; Deborah sat back in her chair, bringing her arms around her chest as she watched his hand tense at his side.

“I don’t know what you-” she started coldly, feigning ignorance, but Martin was having none of it.

“Don’t give me that, you know _exactly_ what I mean!” Martin pointed feverishly at her, but folded his arm back to his side when that seemed to get too much; Deborah had never seen his this angry, never in all the time that they had known each other, “Not only did you take GERTI into a _dangerous_ manoeuvre, but you disobeyed my direct orders, only to behave recklessly!” his voice rose as he carried on, yet he managed to keep from yelling, just, “I am your Captain, and regardless of how _you_ feel, you are _legally_ required to follow orders when we’re in charge of other people’s lives!”

Deborah took a deep breath, and her shoulders tensed as she wetted her lips; she refused to break eye contact, even though the last thing she wanted to see was the restrained rage in his normally warm eyes.

“I apologised for that.” Deborah remarked stiltedly, swallowing sharply half way through, “I agreed that it was a silly thing to do, and I promised not to do anything like that again.”

“That’s not good enough!” Martin interjected, squeezing his eyes shut until he had calmed just a fraction; he was shaking imperceptibly, “You were awful for the _entire_ flight.”

“ _I_ was awful?” Deborah demanded, lurching forwards to place both hands in the desk, abandoning whatever sense of repression she had been relying upon; she took back everything that she had thought before, Deborah was angry again.

This wasn’t fair. Martin didn’t get to make her day miserable and then lay into her at the end. To hell with pushing him away for the sake of feeling better, Deborah was damn well going to give him a piece of her mind. Apparently Martin was letting everything out as well.

“Look, I thought that we were becoming friends,” Martin told her, still breathing heavily, his jaw set and his eyes hard, “But clearly not, as you have no problem dredging up all of the horrible and person things I’ve told you – or embarrassing me in front of the passengers! Your conduct was completely inappropriate and-”

“You were the one selling me down the river so that you could impress that bloody explorer woman!” Deborah yelled, standing fast enough that her chair shot back, and her arms stiffened where they propped her against the desk; she was minutely aware that her hands would be shaking if they weren’t pressed down, “People don’t talk down to their _friends_ so that other women can think that they’re ‘oh so professional’! They take each other’s sides _regardless_ of personal feelings!”

Martin shook his head furiously, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he scowled; he leaned back imperceptibly when Deborah rose, but otherwise stayed exactly where he was, his eyes flickering over her desk as he refused to meet her gaze.

“No, no – You went too far today, and not just with the manoeuvre!” Martin stated, and Deborah had to swallow down a litany of abusive remarks as he refused to acknowledge what she had just said, simply ploughing on with his own agenda as if he hadn’t even heard her, “I was only enforcing the rules, but you went way beyond the line and took cheap shots at my career, my professionalism, my integrity, basically whatever you could find to humiliate me!”

“Now you know how _I_ feel!” Deborah retorted, smirking viciously at Martin’s baffled grimace, “You’re _always_ making digs at me, and not just teasing ones like I do – _no_ , you cross the line _all the time_ , making all these little personal attacks on my personality-”

“You’re reckless, you ignore everything that you’re told,” Martin yelled over her, still shaking his head, gnawing at his lips, cheeks flushing as he counted sarcastically on his fingers; Deborah simultaneously wanted to throttle him, and curl into a ball, and she held her stiff position, “You _still_ flaunt all the ways that you’re better than everyone else as reasons to do whatever you want, when I _know_ you’re _just like_ the rest of us-”

“I _said_ sorry for the bears!” Deborah stressed, having to bend her arms ever so slightly and tip her head forward, pinching her eyes closed before she could continue; inhaling raggedly, she knew that she couldn’t fight any more, she needed to stop before anything else was said, “But I’m not apologising for the other things when _you’re_ the one who started it. We’re supposed to be friends, but you-”

“ _Really?_ ” Martin scoffed, grimacing as his lips curled grotesquely into his cheeks, and he laughed derisively, becoming as het up as she was; he rocked back on his heels, still unwilling to move any closer, the desk between them apparently not far enough, “Because for someone who claims to be my friend, you sure didn’t hold back from insulting me – and you _still_ don’t show me a shred of respect-”

“That doesn’t stop _you_!” Deborah couldn’t help but cry, glaring at him, eyes desperately wide as she gripped the edge of her desk to stop her hands from shaking, “You said not thirty seconds after that woman was on the flight-deck that you thought we were friends, and then you _started_ everything!” she tried to regulate her breathing, but it wasn’t working, and Martin was watching her petulantly with pursed lips, “Not only did you insult me, but you disrespected and subordinated me in front of her – you may have felt like you were doing _so well_ looking all Captain-like, but you didn’t spare a thought for how _I_ felt being talked down to as if I weren’t important enough in front of some jumped up company rep that you’d known for all of two minutes!”

“You-” Martin started, but Deborah cut him off, curling the fingers of one hand, but unable to slam it down so much as raise and lower it shakily.

“I thought we were past all of that.” She said simply, allowing her lips to tremble into a watery scowl, as the pit in her abdomen gaped a little wider.

“No, we’re not past that!” Martin exclaimed, throwing his arms out either side of him, looking about as if surveying the room in a particularly manic manner, “I still have _no idea_ where I stand with you!”

“What?” Deborah snorted derisively, finally bringing her arms to wind around her chest as she watched Martin wave his arms in arcing, jagged gesture; for all their flaws, she had never been anything less than open with Martin. No plastered on happiness as with certain husbands, no false joviality to please the masses; no, nothing but herself.

“It’s just – just, sometimes you’re _lovely_ , _most_ times you’re just _so_ _lovely_ to be around – and I _love_ being around you, and spending time with you, and getting to know you, and just – just, _you_!” Martin explained heatedly, moving as if to pace back and forth, but his feet never made I off the ground, even as Deborah watched, holding her breath as best she could when shuddering internally, “But other times! Other times, you’re like you were today – and you mock me, and you cut me out, and I have _no idea_ what prompted it, or how to feel about that, or why I even bother!”

Martin shook his head frantically, and Deborah tried to grasp at words to say as her chest felt as if it might collapse; it hurt – she wasn’t just upset about being shouted at. Martins’ implication that he barely knew her was the most hurtful thing he had ever said to her.

“Sometimes I think we’re friends, I really do.” Martin continued, and the set of his face softened and he looked like he was holding in a complaint, rather than cursing her very being, “But overall…I don’t know when you’re lying, or whether you’re pretending, or whether it’s the lovely bits, or the other bits that are real.”

“It’s _all_ real!” Deborah replied, and something in her voice must have sounded so desperate, as Martin’s jittering stopped, and he really _looked_ at her, eyes widening as if seeing her for the first time; she supposed that it must have helped that her eyes were beginning to prickle, and she was tugging her arms closer to her like a life-jacket, “That’s _me_ …I’m not _pretending_ , or _lying_ , that’s me!” she sucked in another breath, “If I look happy, then I’m in a good mood, if I look unhappy, then I’m in a bad mood! I am, in fact, a multi-faceted person…I don’t understand what’s so difficult to understand?”

Martin swallowed heavily, and nodded slowly, unable to meet her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, which was still trembling slightly; then he paused, and bit at his bottom lip, before looking straight at her.

“You lied to your husband.” He remarked, and Deborah could just tell that he knew he was pushing his limits; she could have ripped into him for that, but she just didn’t have the energy. Her guts felt like they were trying to hide inside themselves, and her chest felt oddly bereft without the fluttering she had become so used to.

“I don’t lie to you.”Deborah replied shortly, mentally pulling herself together until she was contained and composed, arms still wrapped tightly, but squared, not quite leaning towards the desk as if for support, before continuing coldly, “It seems to me like _you’re_ the one who’s been lying…because I honestly thought that we were getting close…clearly not if you’ve been suspicious of me all along.”

Deborah waited, but Martin made no move to speak, or to approach her; he merely pushed his hands through his hair, and ducked his head, shuffling his feet and sniffing as if to steady himself, or to discard everything that he had just heard.

The argument was over, but Deborah wanted so much for him to speak now and make it better, because she sure as hell wouldn’t no matter how much she just wanted to stop fighting.

“Your behaviour today was still unacceptable.” Martin murmured, so low that Deborah almost didn’t hear it; he lifted his head, and his blue eyes met hers, and it was obvious that she wasn’t the only one that just wanted to stop.

Deborah sighed, and closed her eyes, placing a hand over her eyelids to soften the blow; then she reached for her chair, turning her back on Martin, and pulled it back to slump down in it.

“I’m not apologising again.” She remarked dryly, keeping her gaze fixed on the papers that littered her desk; she had almost forgotten that she had been filling out the paperwork. The perfect distraction, a small token of affection that she wasn’t going to show Martin now.

She heard Martin scoff in disappointment, and lifted her head to peer through her eyelashes just long enough to watch him cross the room, and drop into the sofa, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

oOoOoOo

An hour later, and Deborah was still working slowly through the paperwork, drawing it out for the sake of retaining some time to think, and Martin was still in the porta-cabin, though she wasn’t sure why.

She sort of hoped that like her, he didn’t want to leave things as they were.

Now that everything was off of her chest, Deborah just wanted things to be back to normal between them. Months ago she might not have cared, but now…she would have given anything to be back in Martin’s good books, and to have the tender fluttering return.

Right now, Martin was puttering around at Arthur’s coffee counter, turning on the kettle and fiddling with the mugs until they clinked against each other. Deborah watched his back, and after a moment, came to a decision.

As quietly as she could, although Deborah’s air of gentle caution may have contributed greatly, she tread across the porta-cabin; sidling up beside Martin, without stopping to re-evaluate the decision, Deborah slowly and gently slipped her arms around his middle, hugging him from the side until the side of her head rested just against his shoulder.

Martin made a small oomph noise, and turned in surprise, peering down at her, but apparently he was too exhausted to splutter and fuss as he might normally, as he simply raised his arm and looped it around her back, effectively tucking Deborah into his side, returning the embrace.

And that was all that she had wanted all day. It was pitiful, Deborah knew, but having Martin right there, a solid, comfortable mass that clung back when she clung to him…it brought back the warmth in her chest and pushed all else from her mind.

“Hello.” Martin murmured, bewildered; Deborah tipped her head back to see the faint confusion washing into the harder crinkles around his face, the result of too many hours awake and stressing. With the movement, she was able to shift her arms more comfortably around his chest, and Martin’s arm curled around the middle of her back, as her cheek remained rested on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry for _what_ I said on GERTI.” Deborah said slowly, wetting her lips and making sure to savour every word, to make sure that she was saying the right thing, to watch how Martin’s eyebrows quirked and his eyes narrowed before continuing, “But I’m not sorry for _saying_ it.”

Martin took a deep breath that made his chest move in and outwards, tangible where Deborah was curled into him, and then blinked drearily, shrugging as best he could while keeping a tight hold on her.

“I suppose I _was_ out of line.” Martin remarked, bringing his other arm around to brush at Deborah’s upper arm, his hand rising to fleetingly push her loose hair behind her ear, and then dropping to rest on her shoulder, holding her closer; Deborah was sure that that was a good sign, as his eyes didn’t meet hers, but rather followed the path of his hand, widening fondly at each intonation, “It’s just – it’s that thing again, where I don’t think about how what I’m saying affects _you_ , except-” Martin shook his head, and drew his bottom lip between his teeth, his fingers contracting around the side of her waist, “No, I _have_ been thinking about that, that’s the problem – I just couldn’t work out what the hell was going on in your head, I just-”

“It’s okay.” Deborah sighed, looking away and leaning into Martin’s shoulder, relaxing into his hold; things weren’t quite okay, but it was very easy in that moment to just be happy regardless.

She felt Martin nod, and then his free arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer until she was fully curled into his embrace; Deborah was forced to readjust her arms, but they fit together easily, Martin squeezing as if she might disappear, one arm still around her back, fingers splayed and gripping, the other curling over her shoulder until his hand could stroke over the back of her head.

“We’ll be alright though, won’t we?” Martin asked, his voice muffled where his cheek was pressed into the side of her hair; he spoke with a playful lilt, but it was hardly difficult to hear the muted worry in his tone, nor to feel the way his fingers held on tightly, though not as tightly as he hugged her to him.

Deborah didn’t bother to lift her head from where it was tucked between Martin’s shoulder and chin, her nose still tickling at his neck when she answered.

“Of course we will.” She assured him, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply; after the day they’d had, Deborah couldn’t help the surge of affection, or the lurching need to stay just this close, this safe wrapped up nice and securely, but she knew that she would have to…in a minute. She actually really liked Martin when they weren’t arguing.

She felt Martin shift again, the hand stroking her hair, and his head, and though she couldn’t be sure, Deborah could have sworn that he pressed a light kiss to her hair; wishful thinking perhaps.

Deborah tipped her head back to offer Martin a wavering smile, and for a moment, when she got a good look at the genuine warmth in his blue eyes, and the infinitesimal smile on his lips, her brain screamed at her to kiss him, quickly, they were close enough.

But she blinked the impulse away, because in that moment, the last thing she wanted to do was kiss him, as ridiculous a notion as that was. Cuddle in the middle of the porta-cabin, when they both should have been tucked up in bed, was one thing, it was comforting, it felt right after the distemper of the day.

A moment later, Deborah rolled her shoulders back and made to step away. A moment after that, Martin let her, slowly but surely extracting his limbs.

Then the weight of the day seemed to topple onto her at once, and Deborah found that she was so exhausted, and so relieved to be friends again, that any other thoughts, vicious or confusing, were lost in their ‘leaving work’ routines.


	22. Interlude 8

**Interlude 8**

Another uneventful day over, and their client still hadn’t called; if Deborah hadn’t been so preoccupied, she might have complained more, made a bit more of a fuss for dramatic effect, but as it was, she simply spent the afternoon finding various ways to entertain herself while dredging up the most apt way to put forward what she wanted to say.

On the other hand, they had discovered that when hurling drawing pins across the porta-cabin, Martin could make his land in the mugs on the coffee counter seven out of forty-six times; the victorious glow on his face was enough to stop Deborah from pointing out the margin of success.

While Martin bent over the outer side of his desk, shuffling his paperwork into a neat pile ready for the next day, Deborah made sure to walk along, pushing both of their chairs in and plucking his coat from the back of his, so that she could gift it to him and catch his attention.

As expected, her devious plan worked, and when Deborah came to stand beside Martin, hand outstretched with his coat hanging limply from the tip of her fingers, while she rested the other hand on her hip, Martin turned and smiled gratefully, popping the coat from her with a flick of his wrist, and flinging it around his shoulders to slip it on.

“Martin?” Deborah inquired, smiling warmly and batting her eyelashes ever so slightly; this had to be done tactfully, lest Martin refuse out of wounded pride, as she suspected that he was very likely to do, regardless of his economic situation, “How’s your van business doing? Lots of bookings in the near future?”

Martin’s movements slowed, and his eyebrows dipped as he pursed his lips in thought, looking down at her with a bewildered glint in his eyes, letting his coat slip on, but halting in his adjustment of it.

“Well, not the _near_ future…” he remarked, shrugging in an attempt to seem nonchalant, although Deborah could tell that he’d rather not talk about it, as a moment later his eyes narrowed, and his hands dragged from where they pinched at his collar down the line of the coat’s zip, “Why?”

“Oh, no reason; I’m just interested.” Deborah replied airily, turning to perch on the edge of her desk, loosely curling her arms around her chest so that she could pretend to inspect her nails while sneaking glances at Martin’s speculative gaze; he wasn’t stupid, but she might still be able to win him over, especially if she played the flattering friend card, “How much do you charge?”

“Um…ten pounds an hour…” Martin answered cautiously, pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking slightly on his heels as his cheeks reddened; he shifted so that he was leaning sideways against the desk, fixing Deborah with eyes filled with confusion as the bridge of his nose crinkled.

“And is that every hour that you drive, or every hour that you’re occupied?” Deborah asked, twirling her hand at the wrist, and blinking as openly as possible at Martin, making sure not to push her luck by pressing forward and stroking up his arm as she had in the past; eggshells were the terrain that she was navigating.

Martin turned his head from side to side, as if shaking it in excruciatingly slow motion, eyes never leaving hers; he had come a long way in just a few weeks in terms of trusting her, which was like a breath of fresh air to Deborah. But it did mean that where before he would merely be suspicious, now Martin would still be suspicious, but instead of retaliating, he would assume that he was misinterpreting something genuinely nice, and spend time trying to decipher her true meaning.

“Well…sometimes I spend hours packing up people’s things, driving back and forth, reassembling things for less capable customers...” Martin explained dryly, shrugging his shoulders here and there as if that might add bounce to his story, “So I suppose I get paid for each hour that I’m occupied. Why?”

“Why?” Deborah repeated, raising her eyebrows and feigning surprise, pushing her hair behind her ears with one hand to try and draw attention away from the fact that her act was hardly up to standard, “Well, Martin, you might not know this, but I’m actually moving from my medium sized, rather expensive house, into a smaller, but still lovely flat that happens to be closer to the airfield.”

In truth, she couldn’t afford to pay the mortgage without Harry’s contribution; she had known from the moment he had left that she would have to give up the house, but Deborah had managed to keep hold of the place for almost a year, all the while keeping tabs on any flats that opened up around Fitton.

It was sad, but it had to be done. Martin either felt the same, or was phenomenally tuned into her moods, as he smiled sympathetically, biting at his bottom lip and reaching between them to bump the backs on his knuckles against her upper arm.

“I’m sorry-” Martin started to say in what Deborah could only imagine was an attempt at condolences, but she cut him off, shaking her head swiftly and raising her hand into the air, making him pause with little effort on her behalf.

“Don’t be sorry Martin.” Deborah instructed, abandoning her sweet smirk and becoming wholly serious as she settled against the desk, gesturing with her open hand at the right intonations, “My point is, that although my new flat is lovely, I’m required to furnish it myself, using the furniture from my house. Which means that this Saturday, I’ll be in need of a man with a van.”

With a sighed ‘oh’, Martin’s eyes widened, and he nodded in realisation; he wasn’t flustered or embarrassed, which was a sign of things going to plan, but even so, Deborah didn’t think that the outlook was sunny.

“Why ask me?” Martin asked dully; his shoulders had sagged, and there was a dejected edge to his posture that wasn’t anything near what Deborah had intended, “Why not hire someone that isn’t me – I mean, there’s a lot of professional movers out there.”

“That’s true.” Deborah remarked, making sure to maintain eye contact, and keep a pleasant, encouraging smile on her lips, “But if I’m going to spend hours of my life supervising a man while he disassembles my possessions, couriers them where they need to go, and helps me put them back together…I’d much rather it be you than anyone else.”

“That’s my point, Deborah.” Martin exclaimed weakly, throwing one hand with lacklustre into the air beside him, and leaning more heavily against the desk so that they could talk more directly; Deborah found herself turning to balance the shift, “We’re friends! I just think I’d feel a bit uncomfortable taking your money when I’m doing you a favour.”

“But you wouldn’t be doing me a favour.” Deborah interjected firmly, raising her eyebrow pointedly to stop him in his tracks; Martin’s forehead crinkled in confusion, so Deborah sighed and rolled her eyes, reminding herself to just be patient, “If I wanted a favour, I would ask for one. What I _want_ is a professional who I can pay to assist me with a job that I couldn’t otherwise complete on my own.”

“Oh…” Martin made a surprised noise, and blushed, his lips curling upwards as he rubbed at the back of his neck and ducked his head for a moment, avoiding Deborah’s gaze, which only served to force upon her a rush of affection for the man, “I suppose that’s alright then.”

“Good.” Deborah drawled salaciously, caught between a smirk and a grin at the bashfulness before her, resisting the temptation to perform some sort of physical display of affection, though she didn’t yet know what that might be; she leaned forward suggestively, as if to whisper a secret, and Martin hummed questioningly, “And…I might even manage some dinner in the form of a tip, of course.”

“Oh really?” Martin chuckled, still blushing, but able to nod sardonically, “That’s awfully nice of you.”

“It won’t be proper dinner, mind you.” Deborah corrected herself, grimacing slightly and shrugging, extending her hands into the air either side of her; it was a shame really, she had fleetingly quite enjoyed the idea of the two of them settled down in her new sitting room, just being together outside of a work setting; she supposed the alternative wasn’t too much of a let-down, “The fridge will be empty save for what I’ll have left after Friday night….so you’ll probably just be getting omelettes.”

“No, no – omelettes are good, that’s very kind of you.” Martin insisted hastily, clearing his throat and looking about the porta-cabin before turning shyly back to her, “So…any particular time on Saturday?”

“Whenever you can make it over in the morning – but not ridiculously early.” Deborah replied, making no effort to hide her pleasure; everything had gone rather nicely, she didn’t know why she had been so worried; with an over exaggerated sigh, she nodded towards the door, “Time to head home I think?”

“Uh, yeah, sure…” Martin agreed, and then he checked his watch, “It _is_ getting late, isn’t it.”

Deborah hummed sarcastically, quirking her eyebrows and nodding through pursed lips, laughing brightly when Martin scowled playfully and batted her away from the desk; as they crossed the porta-cabin, Martin ushering her along with an arms hovering somewhere between her shoulders and her back, Deborah didn’t quite listen as he reiterated all sorts of important company details regarding his van, simply nodding in the right places.

Minefield successfully navigated, Deborah actually stood to have a decent weekend, with the added joy of getting to spend time with Martin, and just Martin, without the weight of Captain Crieff or First Officer Richardson hanging over them.

oOoOoOo

Martin arrived early enough on Saturday that although Deborah had been up long enough to change into a pair of fading jeans, she hadn’t moved far enough from her bed to bother swapping her pyjama top and the horrible cardigan that she had draped over herself for the sake of warmth.

She opened the door nonetheless, and smiled wanly at the sight of Martin in his casual work attire, bringing his hands together at his front while he drew his lips between his teeth and blushed anxiously down at the doorstep.

As she admired his appearance underneath his usual coat, (which she had to admit, she had been imagining in far tighter clothes, though when she thought about it, the white t-shirt was jeans combo was far more practical), Deborah was sure that Martin’s nerves abated as he quirked an eyebrow and took in her slightly dishevelled appearance.

“Hi…um, sorry – did I wake you up?” Martin managed to swing through pleased to see her, into clumsily apologetic in a matter of seconds, and he continued even as she automatically shook her head, “It’s just I thought you’d be up by nine.”

“I’m in a transition period.” Deborah replied wryly, glancing down at her mismatch of clothes; then with a spur of alertness, she realised that they were still standing in her doorway, so she hurried to push the door back as far as it would go, extending an arm into the house and nodding Martin in, “Come in, don’t hang around-” Martin did as he was told, walking past her swiftly and then standing awkwardly in the hall that joined the sitting room, his whole figure tucked in as if afraid to disturb anything, despite the furniture being empty and the floor stacked with boxes; Deborah strode past him, and pointed towards the kitchen, “I’m going to go and get dressed – you go in there, the kettle’s not packed, so make yourself a coffee – no arguments, I’ll see you in a minute.”

With that she left Martin flustering slightly, and wandered towards the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Unlike the other rooms, its contents were packed into suitcases rather than boxes, and Deborah was able to slump on the bed, and reach towards the nearest case to lazily drag out whichever shirt she touched first. She was sure without a doubt that Martin was slowly but surely doing as he was told, pottering about her kitchen, elbows tucked in so as not to accidently knock the non-existent items on the counters.

When she remerged, Deborah paused in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen, leaning against the frame; Martin was stirring two mugs of steaming liquid, slouched against the kitchen counter, a curious furrowing of his expression as every now and then he would glance around him, taking in every nook and cranny.

There was something rather nice about seeing Martin so inquisitive; not often, but fleetingly, he would ask for details, showing an interest in her personal life, but he normally restrained himself, keeping a professional distance. Deborah was rather flattered by his interest in her.

Martin looked up and startled slightly when he caught sight of her standing in the doorway, and as Deborah paced into the kitchen and sidled in beside him, Martin lifted one mug and placed it in her grasp, flushing lightly.

“I made you one, I – uh, you looked like you could use it.” He remarked unnecessarily, frowning slightly as he heard the words that he had spoken.

“Well it’s nice to know I look about as good as I feel.” Deborah retorted, clinking her mug against his and rolling her eyes drearily, as Martin scoffed and mirrored the motion; after one last glance around the kitchen, more bare than she was used to, Deborah sighed, and settled back against the counter, “We can make a start in a bit.”

“Yeah, of course, whenever you’re ready.” Martin nodded quickly; when Deborah smiled and hummed her consent, he took a swig of his coffee, and his eyes dropped from hers as he tried to simultaneously clear his throat, “and um, I’m sorry about…” he gestured up and down her figure, “you…you look great.”

Deborah ignored the flurry of fluttering in her chest, and nodded gratefully, unable to think of how else to respond; it was going to be a long day.

oOoOoOo

“Okay, so I thought that we could go through room by room and take the heavier things, like your bed and cabinets, and then when that’s all at the flat, we could come back for the boxes.” Martin suggested as he pulled upon the doors at the back of his van, exposing the bare innards of the vehicle.

“You’re the professional; whatever you say goes.” Deborah replied brightly, pandering to his pride just to see him grin fleetingly, before he inhaled sharply and reasserted himself; while he went about pinning the doors against the body, blushing and humming under his breath, she inspected the van with a pinched expression, arms loosely wound around her middle.

She was slightly disappointed by the lack of a logo on the its side, which left it a nameless white van, bereft of anything that Deborah could use to tease Martin, in an attempt to buoy his spirits, of course.

It took them half an hour in total to empty her bedroom; all that needed removing was the bed, a wardrobe, and the bedside table (Harry had taken the sets of drawers), but somehow they managed to make it last.

Well, Martin made it very clear, through stilted and fractionally edged laughter that it took so long because Deborah was interfering. But she _couldn’t_ just allow him to try and drag her heavy possessions through the house; the moment that she had seen him hoisting the end of the bed over one arm, a flash of fear for the state of his back scrambled her brains, and she was at the other end, balancing the weight before he could tell her to go and sit in the corner.

And he didn’t hold back from ordering her about either, as she discovered with an irritable scowl that she was undoubtedly weaker than he was; and yet, although Martin was confidently authoritative, the smile never left his lips for more than a few seconds, and his cheeks were flushed more from exertion than temper.

Deborah had to admit, she _was_ rather enjoying herself; she supposed that that was in part due to the fact that for some reason, Martin felt quite comfortable bossing her here there and everywhere; he was the boss, and she was acting the customer, so she posed no threat whatsoever to his position. Or perhaps he was simply enjoying her company as much as she was his, Deborah would never know.

“No, no! Put it down and go stand over there!” Martin instructed, placing the bed on the ground, halfway through the front door, so that it lay between the hall and the driveway; he couldn’t quite stop the miniscule curling of his lips, but he pointed commandingly into the corner of the hall nonetheless, fixing Deborah with a stern glare, “This will go far more quickly if you let me do it myself.”

“No it won’t.” Deborah snorted, placing her hands on her hips and meeting Martin’s glare watt for watt, “I’m being helpful.”

“You’re not helpful; you’re a pest and a menace.” Martin muttered, but he shook his head fondly and bent down to wrap his hands around the edge of the bed’s frame, “Fine, take the other end, and just do exactly what I tell you. Stop doing your own thing – from the knees!”

“Yes, yes, _fine_!” Deborah exclaimed, rolling her eyes dramatically, but doing as she was told, bending at the knees and rising with the frame hooked over her lower arms; Martin grumbled, but began walking backwards, only to judder to a halt as the frame clanged against the doorframe.

“What are you doing?” Martin scolded her for the fourth time in twenty minutes, his eyebrows leaping to his hairline, “You need to pivot the other way.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ that my spatial angle calculations aren’t as fine-tuned as yours.” Deborah drawled sarcastically, adjusting her movements regardless, “I bow to your wisdom, oh great van man.”

An hour later, the two of them stood on the driveway behind Martin’s van, having managed to wedge the bed and the wardrobe into the back on their sides, and the bedside table atop them, stuck fast against the metal top of the van.

“Right, well, that’s the first lot.” Martin announced, gripping the edge of the door with one hand, rubbing the other over his chin and smiling brightly down at Deborah as she faced him, no more than a foot between them, “So…are you going to come with me or stay here?”

Deborah sighed in a facsimile of thoughtfulness, folding her arms over her chest and pursing her lips, meeting Martin’s warm eyes; waiting at home hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“I think I’ll come with you,” she answered after a pause, “So that I know you’re putting things in the right place.”

Martin’s smile widened, and he nodded smoothly, a light coming on in his eyes that made Deborah pull her arms a little tighter around her chest, as he extended his hand between them, palm up, waggling his fingers as he cocked his head towards the van, “Up you get then.”

Without even thinking about it, Deborah took Martin’s hand and allowed him to help her hop onto the raised floor of the van, resting her hand on his shoulder as it wobbled under foot. It was only she was standing there, that she looked down at him in confusion, as Martin began to chuckle, a wicked, shining grin that lit up his cheeks and caused little lines to pinch at his eyes as they traced her face.

He was still holding her hand, though his other curled to push through his hair while he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth. Despite how wonderful it was to watch Martin gripped by such joy, Deborah couldn’t help but feel slightly wrong-footed, and bewildered.

“Why am I up here?” she inquired, gesturing behind her back to the cramped innards of the van; Deborah didn’t want to turn away from him, lest it might mean letting go of his hand; Martin coughed out a final laugh, and then cleared his throat, physically steadying his breathing in one fell swoop.

“You mean you _don’t_ want to ride in the back?” Martin replied wryly, quirking an eyebrow as Deborah’s expression transformed into one of abashed, admiring, surprise; she couldn’t help but narrow her eyes and glare open mouthed at him for a moment.

“No of course I don’t.” Deborah retorted, batting him with their joined hands, even as he shifted to avoid the light blow to the side of his shoulder; she wetted her lips and caught his eye, and Martin’s eyes flickered towards her lips, as he pursed his; Deborah added fondly, “You’re teasing me.”

“Only a bit.” Martin shrugged, and tugged on her hand, offering the other to help her down from the back of the van, stepping forwards and closing the gap between them.

“Well stop it.” Deborah murmured, as she slipped her unoccupied hand onto Martin’s shoulder and was lowered, rather more bodily than she had expected, onto the ground; there was no fighting the upwards curl of her lips with Martin so close, holding her barely an inch from him, far more tangible when out of the stiff MJN uniforms.

Martin made no effort to move away, and Deborah’s attention seemed to narrow in on the points at which his arm draped comfortably around her waist, and his hand pressed over hers on his shoulder; she had to tip her head back to see the contented set of his face, as he peered down at her, apparently unaware of their proximity.

“Shall we go then?” Martin suggested, nodding over his shoulder; he didn’t move though, not any more than a few inches.

“Of course,” Deborah replied, taking the initiative and slipping from his grasp, but not releasing his hand, “Lead the way, Captain.”

oOoOoOo

The move from beloved house to appealing flat went quite smoothly after the initial fumbles and stumbles, and as an added bonus, neither of them wanted to kill each other.

Once everything had been moved, and the house bid farewell for the last time, Martin had set to work reassembling everything that had needed to be deconstructed for the journey, and Deborah had set about filling the rest of the day with idle chatter and a steady stream of coffee.

It was fascinating watching him work; Deborah supposed that he would usually be more ‘head down, get the job done’, but with her, Martin was fairly chipper, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, constructing her furniture from his lap.

By the time the sun had disappeared, all of her possessions were in their rightful place, and Deborah was fulfilling her promise of food using the few items that she had managed to salvage. Martin had hovered, but been promptly dismissed and made to wait in the sitting room.

When the omelettes were done, Deborah plated them up and wandered into the sitting room, where Martin was slouching on one of her green sofas, flicking through a book that he must have pinched from the shelving unit he had so recently helped her fill. The moment that he saw her, Martin dropped the book onto the coffee table and scooched into the far corner of the sofa, holding himself in a far more contained manner, with fewer limbs hanging over the edge.

She handed him the plate, and lowered herself onto the opposite end of the sofa, tucking her legs beneath herself so that she could face him, and for a moment, the two of them ate in silence until Martin sighed, and paused, and glanced around the room. Deborah placed her fork down gently, and watched him with one eyebrow raised expectantly as she waited for him to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

“What do you…um…” Martin began to ask, his cheeks flushing red as he frowned at himself, and swallowed sharply to reassert his own flow; Deborah nodded slowly, though she wasn’t sure what he was getting at, “What do you do when you’re not at work? I mean, I’m not prying, I just…you don’t seem to have a lot besides books and the tellie.”

There was a swooping sensation in her stomach at Martin’s inquiry, a sort of ‘you _do_ pay attention’ sort of siren that cheered her tremendously; and yet, it just wouldn’t do to answer him straight out.

“What do _you_ do?” Deborah drawled, smirking salaciously as Martin nodded in muted acceptance of the inevitable; he sighed, but placed his plate on the coffee table, and stretched his legs out until they rested a few inched from Deborah’s knees, and rolled his shoulders back.

“Well, I uh…I walked into that didn’t I?” Martin scoffed at himself, covering his mouth with a curled fist as he stifled a bashful chuckle; Deborah merely pursed her lips to prevent superfluously soppy beaming, “I um, I read – or watch tellie…or I’m on a van job.” He trailed off and shrugged, hands lifting palm up into the air either side of him; then his eyes widened in thought, and his mouth made an ‘oh’ shape, “and the flight simulator of course.”

“Oh, of _course,_ how could I forget?” Deborah laughed, looking down briefly at where her hands curled around her knees to save her from staring for too long at Martin’s face.

“I suppose you don’t have that problem – I mean with the van job.” Martin remarked speculatively, bringing his own hands to his knees where they were outstretched; Deborah looked to him in confusion, shaking her head minutely in question, so he shifted about and bobbed his head as he swallowed and padded out his words with an explanation, gesturing with his hand in the air, “What I mean is, I guess you don’t really _need_ to spend as much time as I do here. I bet you have better things to do, like go out with friends.”

Deborah began to nod, simply nodding along to the ups and downs of Martin’s speech, but stopped when the words sank in; she wetted her lips and dropped her eyes, gripping one knee a little more tightly as she could almost feel Martin’s gaze on her, inquisitive but unsuspecting.

Before, she might have replied flippantly, but now, the impulsive desire to lie was absent. Deborah didn’t want to raise Martin’s expectations of her anymore; she wanted him to know her, properly. After all, it _did_ seem to be their limitations that they bonded over.

“Martin, can I be completely honest with you?” Deborah asked, and something in her tone must have sounded more pitiful than she had expected, as Martin’s eyebrows leapt upwards and he nodded hastily; she inhaled deeply, and made an effort to meet his eyes, “My family, what’s left of them, lives far away, and I spend so long on flights that I don’t have time to meet and keep people…I have a feeling that with your van job, your life it far more exciting than mine. I mostly watch a lot of box sets.”

“Which ones?” Martin replied immediately, and then he flushed rapidly, and ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck before he continued; Deborah felt like something had fallen through a void in her chest, and almost lurch forward to do something she wasn’t yet sure about to him, for being so typically _him_ , “I’m sorry – uh, um, uh…thank you for telling me that, well, for trusting me, not that it’s a good thing you’re…I’m not sure what to say…” the spluttering seems to settle down, and Martin was once again able to meet her eyes, shifting so that he was turned towards her, one arm slung over the back of the sofa for leverage, though he didn’t bring it down, “I just…it’s nice, getting to know more about you. But…you know you’ve got me – and MJN, not just _me_.”

“Thank you.” Was all that Deborah could think to say, let out on a breath; she just wanted to wrap her arms around Martin and hold on tightly, but knew that that wasn’t a good idea. She still wasn’t sure what that meant, but it made her chest ache in a pleasant way, so there was little that she could do but accept the insane impulses for what they were.

She knew she had MJN; Deborah was under no illusions that she truly had anything else _but_ MJN. No partner, a child that functioned without her…all that she had to fall back upon was MJN; not the job so much, but the provision of a place to be every day, a plane to turn into a personal den, and people that would never fail to be around.

And Martin.

Martin was separate from MJN (even though Captain Crieff was not). This Martin here, that looked at her the way that he was then, with what Deborah assumed was fondness grown over time, but held enough warmth that it heated the moths in her chest and ignited a myriad of thoughts.

And he wasn’t even looking and seeing a Sky God, or a perfect wife, or a showy facsimile of her more appealing qualities. Martin saw every single flaw (he criticised them often enough), and he still looked at her like that, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

It was only when, for a fleeting, shuddering moment, Deborah thought recklessly that she would give that man anything for him to keep looking at her like that, that she realised she had to stop.

“And as for your earlier question – Monty Python.” Deborah announced, suddenly breathless though she brushed that off with a smirk and a hand running through her hair, allowing her wrist to momentarily block her face from view.

“Oh, I haven’t seen it.” Martin replied, shaking his head and biting his bottom lip, unaware of anything that had run rampant through his colleague’s mind, looking far too lovely for his own good. Luckily, Deborah was able to distract herself with the indignant flare that reenergised her.

“What? No, that is blasphemy!” Deborah announced, unfolding her legs and swinging them to the floor, hoisting herself to her feet and beginning to march around the back of the sofa towards where her new room was packed with boxes, as Martin’s head followed the movement, and he watched, puppy eyed and bewildered, turning around on the sofa, “I’m getting it now, and we’re going to watch some.”

It was for his own good…and hers; Deborah really needed some way to have a good sit down and talk with herself.

oOoOoOo

After another hour or so, sat side by side on the sofa, Martin chuckling away to himself as Deborah kept her eyes trained on his face to judge his reactions, they decided to call it a night. Over the course of the evening, they had both shifted towards the middle of the sofa, partly for ease of viewing, partly because the cushions were worn and tipped them sideways, the end result being that Deborah’s leg pressed against Martin’s the entire time.

It was with the good mood that that instilled that Deborah walked with Martin to the front door, standing far too close as he put his coat on, as he had to tuck in his arms so as not to elbow her in the face, but neither mentioned it. In fact, once he was set, Martin closed the space even further, stepping forwards slightly and smiling thinly and contentedly down at her, his hands settling in his pockets.

“We should do this more often.” Martin remarked, his voice lower than usual, clogged with tiredness as he blinked slowly and scuffed the back of his knuckles against her cheeks; Deborah didn’t even think about leaning into the gesture, and was focused solely on holding his gaze, arms loosely hooked around her chest as she tipped her head back a fraction, “Not the moving – the other bits.”

“Hmm, we absolutely should.” Deborah didn’t quite drawl, but the sound definitely came from somewhere around the bottom of her chest, as she couldn’t keep the tender smile from her lips, “We didn’t finish the DVDs, so I expect you back here at some point.”

“Yes, of course.” Martin hummed in agreement, and Deborah was transfixed by his blue eyes on hers, and the relaxed set of his shoulders, as he swayed imperceptibly on his heels. Then she realised with a jolt the one thing that she needed to do before he left.

“Here,” she muttered, catching Martin’s attention; he nodded confusedly, but waited patiently, as Deborah dug in her pockets for the notes that she had put there for safe keeping; the moment was gone once she placed the money in his hands and manually curled his fingers over them, “You worked from nine until six, so here’s ninety pounds that I owe you for your hard work.”

Martin sighed exhaustedly, and shook his head, raising the notes into the air and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth.

“Deborah, I still don’t feel-”

“Don’t argue, just take it.” Deborah interjected, raising an eyebrow as firmly as possible while squaring her shoulders formidably; Martin had no choice but to concede gracefully, pushing the notes into his pocket as if out of sight really was out of mind.

“Thanks, that’s…thanks.” Martin replied, nodding respectfully; his cheeks were no longer flushed, and his lips had taken a decidedly downward turn that made Deborah regret her own act of kindness.

He looked her over one more time, running his eyes over her face, and then reached behind himself for the door handle, turning away from her with the motion. In a moment of thoughtlessness, Deborah reached out to slip her fingers delicately around Martin’s arm, and turn him back, ignoring the bewildered way that his eyes ran from her hand to her expression, head following the same route.

“Wait.” Deborah sighed, “Come here.” with that, she stepped closer, and putting aside the feeling of his breath against her cheek, Deborah placed a small kiss on the centre of Martin’s cheek, letting her hands slip first up, then away from his shoulder, “There. Thank you for today.” She concluded as she released him, and put a few more inches between them.

Martin’s cheeks were scarlet, and his eyes flittered from here to there, barely staying in one place. Then he cleared his throat and nodded, placing his hand on the door handle and smiling shyly at her.

“That’s…no problem.” Martin informed her, raising his eyebrows as if in an unconscious gesture to himself, “I’ll…see you…Monday. Bye.”

Then Martin pulled the door open, and disappeared into the night, pausing only long enough to nod bashfully in response to Deborah’s airy goodbye.

Locking the door, and turning back to her new home, Deborah couldn’t help but exhale sharply and close her eyes, placing a mental bookmark over the entire day.


	23. Paris

**Paris**

Deborah had never had so much fun on Birling day. True, there was always a certain sense of victory to be found in obtaining the Talisker from underneath everyone’s noses, but this year…she was having much more fun playing with Martin than she ever had when succeeding.

He reacted so beautifully to the job that he had been assigned by Carolyn; despite her joy that Martin had relaxed into himself and their relationship enough to let down his barriers, Deborah couldn’t help but feel a certain fondness for the prissy, erratically neurotic steak that manifested so particularly in the Captain as he protected the whiskey.

That hadn’t stopped her from diluting the whiskey glasses when she had been ordered to the loo, but Deborah had no real intention of keeping the Talisker from Mr Birling indefinitely; she couldn’t force Martin to pay Carolyn more money than he could afford.

So, it was with a shadow of a smile gracing her lips that didn’t fade at all, that Deborah watched both Martin and Arthur bumble about trying to keep everything going according to plan. Such contentedness was a welcome surprise; she might even tell Verity about it, in the form of a mystery or adventure story of course.

While Arthur left the flight-deck to see to Mr Birling, Deborah kept one eye on Martin, who kept sending her sideways glances and gnawing at his bottom lip between his teeth; she sat facing forwards in her seat, monitoring the controls and curling her fingers daintily over the ends of the arms, nails tapping a slight rhythm to compensate for the prickle that Martin’s gaze produced.

“You know Martin,” Deborah drawled, catching his attention and flashing him a dazzling smile laced with self-satisfaction; Martin hummed in acknowledgement and raised an eyebrow, turning his head to narrow his eyes at her, “Perhaps next Birling Day you might enjoy yourself further if you actually worked _with_ me, rather than against me.”

“Ah, but you say that as if I’ve lost.” Martin retorted, puffing his chest out with pride as he flicked a switch above the altimeters and reached up to straighten his hat atop his head, tucking in the few tufts of ginger hair that always escaped no matter how hard he tried, “And I’m not going to lose – I’m going to stop you from stealing the Talisker, so there’s no _reason_ for me to work _with_ you.”

“But don’t you think it would be so much more _fun_?” Deborah cooed, making sure to set her shoulders back and shake her head ever so slightly so that her hair, which had been tied back for the day, brushed over the back of her neck, and she pouted salaciously across the flight-deck, “We could reap the rewards together.”

To her pleasure, Martin’s cheeks pinked just enough to stand out beneath his freckles, and he cleared his throat, but still wrinkled his nose and smirked nonetheless, evidently relishing the chance to display how professional he could be without there being anyone to see but them.

“Or I could reap _all_ the rewards, by _winning_.” Martin replied, leaning from his seat towards her for emphasis; Deborah exhaled good naturedly, fighting off a chuckle at the wicked adorableness of Martin’s expression.

“The rewards that you’d receive from Carolyn are _far_ different from the rewards that you would receive from me.” Deborah remarked elusively, fluttering her eyelashes and turning enough in her seat that she was facing him without having to shift every time she spoke.

“What sort of rewards are _you_ offering?” Martin snorted, lumbering behind on the uptake as usual; his eyes flickered up and down her once, as if summing her up, and he quirked an eyebrow in her direction. Deborah sighed dramatically; it was a good thing that she was equipped with ready installed Martin-worthy patience.

“Only what you see before you.” Deborah drawled salaciously, resting the side of her head against the back of the seat and folding one leg neatly over the other, turning more fully. Martin’s expression shifted from playfulness to confusion, and Deborah had to fight not to roll her eyes, instead sweeping a hand in the air from her head to her toes, batting her eyelids and holding his gaze.

There was no harm in a little harmless flirting, she thought with a delicious smirk; her jacket was open, and as her hand travelled past, Deborah allowed the tips of her fingers to further promote the open top button of her already too tight shirt.

Martin’s whole face turned a charming shade of scarlet, and he spluttered out a sharp exhale, sitting back fast enough in his seat that that it gave a little thump, as his hands turned white with the force that they were exerting, gripping onto the arms of his seat.

“I- um, uh..I Um - ” Martin opened and closed his mouth, swallowing hard while his eyes widened comically, and actually travelled along the same route that her hand had, returning to the same few spots.

Deborah’s smile surged into a grin, and she could almost _feel_ her face lighting up as she giggled without the power to prevent it, one hand curling in the air over her mouth to try and hide the fact, the other pressing just below her chest as she bent forwards with the effort of remaining composed.

“I’m _joking_.” She managed to laugh, relishing the flurry of affectionate warmth that rippled and turned in her chest; there was really no point denying anymore that she was really, very fond of Martin, if the responses that he triggered were anything to go by.

After a handful of occurrences when Deborah had to push aside the temptation to do…various things to him, she had mutedly accepted that she may have possessed some sort of attraction or diverted friendship for him, though both were most probably the result of a serious craving for affection of any kind.

That was okay. There was no need to act on it - she didn’t really want to act on it. It would pass in time, and she could get back to just enjoying being friends with the man.

“Good – good…it’s good that you’re joking, you’d better be joking.” Martin retorted, when he had regained enough peace of mind to purse his lips and square his shoulders, pointing authoritatively in the space between them with a slightly shaking hand, “Because if you weren’t…I’d have to have a serious talk with you about appropriate flight-deck banter.”

“Hmmm, whatever you say Darling.” Deborah drawled, turning her eyes back to the skies, smile still securely settled on her lips.

Beside her, Martin scoffed, but there was no time to respond, as in the same moment the flight-deck door swung open with a creak, and Arthur stuck his head around the door, taking only a moment to glare in pensive wonderment at Deborah when she turned to look at him, before gesturing excitedly to Martin.

“Skip, I need to tell you something.” Arthur announced guiltily, tapping his fingers anxiously against the metal of the door which they were curled around, “It’s about Mr Birling and his whiskey.”

Martin’s jaw dropped, and he turned to glare at Deborah, who merely shrugged her shoulders and feigned innocence; it wouldn’t do to appear as if she knew what was going on.

“Right,” Martin nodded, and reached forwards to adjust the control panel, “You have control, Deborah.”

Once control was handed over, Martin was already out of his seat and following Arthur from the flight-deck. Deborah settled back in her seat and sighed contentedly; with the two of them going out of their minds trying to work out what was going on, the rest of the flight promised to be the most wonderful entertainment she had had in a very long time.

oOoOoOo

Watching Martin get worked up was one of the funniest things that Deborah had been witness to in her many years of life; now that his suspicions regarding her no longer prompted fury, but simply muted acceptance, there was something wonderful about experiencing his frantic attempts to work out how she had managed to take the whiskey.

Even better was the fact that he trusted her word and began to suspect everyone else but her.

So Deborah had listened, fighting of sniggers as Martin had argued with Carolyn over the sat-com, soaking in every shrill lilt of his voice for future reference, stifling a chuckle at his abrupt dismissal. Then Martin had called in Arthur, in the hope that he could discover more about what was going on, like a good little detective.

“Hi, chaps.” Arthur greeted them as he wandered into the flight-deck, pulling the door shut behind him as had been ingrained into him over the last few months, after a toddler from one of their previous flights had pottered in and wrapped itself around Martin’s legs.

“Arthur, describe to me exactly what happened when you left the flight deck.” Martin demanded, turning in his seat so that he could hoist himself up and peer over the top of it, leaving Deborah to keep an eye on the actual flying.

He had been doing that a lot actually; Deborah supposed that it was just a sign of his ever growing trust that Martin didn’t feel the need to monitor her every move.

“Okay. Wow, this is brilliant.” Arthur replied; Deborah scoffed as he bumbled into the jump-seat, leaning forwards and resting on his knees, face set in excitement for what he probably expected was a television style interrogation.

“It’s not brilliant!” Martin barked, shaking his head and pressing the heel of his hand over his eyes, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth in a show of carefully controlled patience that Deborah wished that she could scoop up and keep for later.

“It’s a bit brilliant.” Arthur countered; he was shifting about where he was perched, fingers winding together, clearly not as concerned by their predicament as Martin was, “Can I tell you in my own words?”

“Who else’s words had you planned to use?” Deborah asked flippantly, just to wind Martin up that little bit more; he could cope, she would stop if it became too much, “Winston Churchill’s?”

“No, but they always say, ‘Tell us in your own words the events of the night in question.’” Arthur explained vehemently, his eyebrows leaping towards his hairline for emphasis.

“Just tell us!” Martin stressed, chest heaving once in agitation, and he pushed his hat further down onto his head, as if for the sake of something to do that wasn’t wrapping his hands around Arthur’s throat.

“All right.” Arthur conceded, nodding solemnly and ploughing on with his story in a dramatic tone, drawing it out in a way that was sure to grate on Martin’s nerves; Deborah had to purse her lips and grip the controls a little tighter to stop herself from smiling, “In my own words, I came into the galley with the bottle you gave me.”

“Yes.” Martin acknowledged, whirling his hand through the air.

“I got a glass, and I went in to Mr. Birling …” Arthur continued, only for Martin to interrupt him again, with another harried ‘ _yes_ ’, but this didn’t deter him, “He had a bit of a shout; I had a bit of a listen …”

“Yes?” Martin demanded impatiently; he was practically staring wide eyed now, gripping the back of his seat with an intensity undeserving of a mid-air whiskey theft.

“I poured him a glass of whiskey; he tasted it, said it was horrible. I called for you; you came; you did that funny thing with your throat …” Arthur barrelled on, eyes ticking upwards as he recalled everything that he could.

“What funny thing?” Deborah demanded eagerly, swivelling immediately in her seat to grin open mouthed and expectantly at Arthur, ignoring Martin’s indignant glare; the plane could survive for a few moments on its own while she indulged her guilty fascinations.

“Oh, you know, the sort of … auhuhahahuahah!” Arthur made a sort of high-pitched, intermittent whining sound, and Deborah couldn’t help but beam and giggle reflexively, gripping the back of her seat to stop herself from clapping pathetically.

“Oh, I _love_ that sound.” She drawled, turning to bat her eyelashes at Martin, who scowled and flushed scarlet, inhaling raggedly and puffing out his chest, “It is a _magnificent_ sound!”

Deborah wasn’t entirely mocking him; she really _did_ adore the frantic, pedantic little twitches that Martin had, and each one made her want to throw her arms around him, or more pertinently, make him repeat the offending action.

“All right, that’ll do!” Martin raised his voice, and under his steely glare, Deborah settled back into her seat, flicking a switch as she passed it and righting the slight tilt of the aircraft, “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Has that revealed the vital clue, Inspector?” Deborah inquired pleasantly, still unable to truly wipe the smirk from her face; Martin was a big boy, he could endure.

“Shush, Deborah.” Martin waved a dismissive hand in her direction, and the bridge of his nose scrunched up in intense thought.

“Just trying to help.” Deborah remarked airily, but Martin was having none of it.

“You can’t help.” He retorted suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at her and fixing her with a look charged with fighting stance, though he remained stiffly hunched in his seat, “You’re the suspect – and also the person who did it!”

“I really didn’t, Martin. You made it impossible.” Deborah insisted, placing a hand over her chest and gazing imploringly at him, praying that his trust in her would make it easier to lie to him; she would reveal all later, “And if I had, don’t you think I’d be gloating by now?”

“Well … yes. But who else could it be?” Martin implored, blinking dejectedly with all the curious bewilderment of a new born lamb; the temptation to just put him out of his misery was there, but it was far too weak to have much of an impact.

“Well, if you’re sure it wasn’t you, then I suppose there’s only one person it could be.” Deborah suggested, raising her palms into the air either side of her and sighing helplessly; it probably wasn’t fair to set Martin on Arthur, but that was life.

“Well … but why would Mr. Birling steal his own whiskey?” Martin inquired, his eyebrows furrowing as he gnawed on the corner of his lips; that hadn’t been quite what Deborah had meant, but she was careful not to allow herself to pause in bewilderment before pushing onwards.

“I couldn’t say, Martin. Perhaps you should investigate.” She said jauntily, pleased to see that Martin nodded swiftly and collected himself as one would before a trek or before marching into decisive battle.

“Ooh! Can I come too?” Arthur asked, rising to his feet in the same moment that Martin hoisted himself up.

“No.” Martin replied shortly as he hobbled through the gap between the seats, pressing his hat on his head with a hand as he ducked down to avoid the loose part that they had yet to tape back into place.

“I won’t say anything.” Arthur insisted, following at Martin’s heels regardless, “I’ll just be really excited!”

Once again, Deborah was left in the flight-deck to mull over just how well the day was going; perhaps if all went to plan, they could set up another elaborate game next year.

oOoOoOo

Post-landing checks complete, and Arthur was shovelling Mr Birling out of GERTI and back to his wife, leaving Deborah and Martin to hang back in the cabin, perched on the edge of a seat either side of the aisle.

Martin was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his hands together, and his hat hooked over the top of the seat’s back, as he sighed every now and again and glanced around at the debris that had yet to be cleared away.

“Are you alright Martin?” Deborah inquired, folding her arms loosely so that she could rest her weight upon her knees, “You’re looking a bit dejected.”

He _did_ look a bit down, which was a little bit worrying; outright misery or fury she could have dealt with, but Martin was exuding a sort of muted acceptance that didn’t sit right with the image that Deborah had in her head.

“Yeah…” Martin sighed, making an effort not to frown quite so vividly, and shrugging his shoulders, “I’m just baffled by how you managed to give us the run around all day. Really, that was impressive I suppose.”

“So you’re impressed?” Deborah repeated, smirking proudly and leaning a little more on her arms; her mood couldn’t even be dampened by the eyebrow that Martin raised or the little shake of his head.

“No, the act was impressive.” Martin corrected her, unable to keep an imperceptible smile from tucking up the corners of his lips as his eyes traced her face, and his hands pressed together, “What I am is baffled.”

“Well, I’ll say it again Martin, if you hadn’t taken it so seriously, you might have had more fun.” Deborah remarked cheerfully, running her hand over her hair, pushing back he few loose strands that had escaped when she had been cheerfully gloating, “I did.”

“Of course I took it seriously!” Martin insisted, gesticulating vehemently; that only served to make Deborah all the more entertained, and she wanted nothing more than to take his airborne hands in hers and hold them still, “You were going to steal the whiskey.”

“No I wasn’t. I had no intention of _stealing_ it once I realised that you’d be losing out if I did.” Deborah explained, batting the air as she did and scrunching up her nose in an expression of mocking disdain, “It was only a game.”

Martin’s eyes widened, and he gaped silently for a moment, as if he were seeing a new brand of moon peeking over the horizon; then his cheeks flushed and he ducked his head slightly to rub at the back of his neck, breathing sharply through his nose.

“Oh, well, in that case-” he replied jokingly, rolling his eyes and smiling open mouthed.

“In that case you should lighten up next time,” Deborah interjected, glancing over her shoulder as the sound of feet on clinking on the metal steps echoed minutely through GERTI’s walls, before turning back to Martin, “stop fussing, and play with me instead.”

Martin smiled wanly, and the next moment Carolyn marched through the cabin door, followed closely by Arthur; Deborah straightened a little in her seat, folding one leg over the other and adopting an expression of plain inquisitiveness at the irritable confusion that crinkled her employer’s face.

“Carolyn, you’re looking positively befuddled.” Deborah remarked, lightly, earning a small scoff from where Martin was sitting; that made the quivering glare that Carolyn sent her worth it.

“Don’t get smart with me Deborah!” Carolyn retorted, coming to a halt in the centre of the aisle, hands on her hips; Arthur remained steadfastly behind her, peering apologetically at the two pilots, “Did you or did you not steal the Talisker?”

“Did you not see the highly inebriated Mr Birling on your way up here?” Deborah replied, extending her hand towards the open door, “If not, you might like to take another look. The sight’s quite self-explanatory.”

“I did in fact,” Carolyn said, feigning bright unconcern for a mere moment, before looking to Martin, whose eyes flickered down as he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, and plucked his hat from its perch to twirl slowly between his fingers, “and yet Arthur tells me that the whiskey was in the hands of Deborah for most of the flight.”

“Sorry chaps.” Arthur apologised, grimacing slightly as he waved his hand a little, and then sat down at the end of one of the aisles; Martin nodded sympathetically and winced, and Deborah simply shook her head despairingly, rolling her eyes. It wasn’t a problem, but still.

“Carolyn, I _did_ keep hold of the Talisker for most of the flight, but I gave it to Mr Birling when he asked for it.” Deborah explained, sending Martin a sharp glare to warn him against interrupting as he looked ready to do, teetering on the precipice of speech, “Which means that I didn’t _steal_ anything…and therefore you have to pay Martin one hundred pounds as you promised.”

Martin made a surprised sound, and Carolyn huffed, shaking her head and pursing her lips.

“No I don’t.” Carolyn argued, ignoring the lack of obedient subservience in Deborah’s bored expression, “The deal was that if you stole the whiskey, _he_ paid _me_ – which is what happened!”

“Well ac-” Martin began, shifting further onto the edge of the seat, looking imploringly between the two women, but Deborah raised her hand and glared at him politely.

“Martin, hush.” She instructed, then looked back to Carolyn, losing the pleasant smile and fixing the older woman with a thin lipped stare, “I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it, which means that _you_ owe _Martin_. If you wanted to sell off your debts, you should have worded your deal better.” As Carolyn looked ready to argue further, Deborah shook her head, “I won’t back down over this.”

Carolyn glared stormily down at her for an insurmountable amount of time, and then rolled her eyes dramatically and reached into her jacket pocket, retracting her hand with her black purse clasped between her fingers.

“Fine!” she grumbled, digging through her purse and retrieving what looked like five twenty pound notes, before stepping forwards to hold them out to Martin, “I would say ‘job well done’, but we both know how wrong that would be.”

“Thank you.” Martin replied hastily as he took the money from her, and tucked it into his pocket without a word; Deborah watched with an overall feeling of contentment, and then looked away swiftly when Martin’s eyes flickered back to hers.

“Right, well then.” Carolyn uttered, as she surveyed the cabin and tutted at the empty bottles and crumbs that lay about the floor; content that her duty was done, Deborah listened without a word, “Arthur, start clearing this up – you two,” at this Carolyn opened her hand in the air as it hung between Deborah and Martin, and she inhaled redundantly, “You go and do whatever it is you do when you’re not flying my plane. I’m sick of the sight of you already.”

With a little grumbling, and a hearty farewell from Arthur, Deborah led the way from the plane, Martin at her shoulder as they descended the steps and wandered onto the tarmac; it was dark outside, and he fell into step beside her as they made their way towards the porta-cabin.

“Deborah…” Martin’s voice permeated the otherwise still night, and when she glanced towards him, he had his head turned just enough so that he could see her face while looking ahead, his hat held between both of his hands; Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, and watched attentively, “I just wanted to thank you. For that back there…it was sweet of you, you didn’t have to-”

“Of course I didn’t have to Martin.” Deborah interrupted dryly, “But I thought I’d do you a favour, because that’s what friends do.”

They were walking close enough side by side that, with her arms folded loosely over her chest for warmth, Deborah was able to bump her elbow playfully into Martin’s arm, bouncing sideways on her heels with a brief chuckle as Martin retaliated in kind, smirking with his bottom sliding through his teeth.

“Well, thank you…again.” Martin replied, sighing into the end of his gratitude; they walked in silence for a few minutes more, Deborah trying to rationalise why their arms brushing together made little ripples emanate somewhere within her abdomen. Enjoying Martin’s presence so much couldn’t be healthy, but she wasn’t yet at the point of worrying.

As they approached the porta-cabin, and Deborah flicked the internal lights on, Martin shoved his hands in his pockets and let out a satisfied groan, glancing briefly over his desk before striding into the middle of the room and watching Deborah do the same.

“Deborah?” Martin asked, and when she paused and straightened up to raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him, she saw that his lips were pursed and he was studiously avoiding her gaze with the expression of someone who should have been sheepish but really wasn’t even a little bit, “You remember how, a while back, you were telling me that you didn’t actually have many friends at the moment because you spend all your time on GERTI?”

Deborah swallowed a surge of indignation, and placed her hands on her waist, squaring her shoulders and feigning nonchalant offence.

“I _do_ remember Martin.” She replied wryly, quirking an eyebrow demonstratively and leaning back so that the back of her legs rested against the desk, “And I think it’s absolutely marvellous of you to remind me.”

“Oh, god, no- that’s not what I meant!” Martin insisted, raising his hands in surrender and turning a charming shade of red; he smiled nonetheless and Deborah allowed him to wander to the desks and lean against his, turning so that they could converse side by side, with only a foot of air between them, “What I meant is…because you spend so much time with me, and I’m your friend…does that mean that I’m your best friend?”

Deborah couldn’t answer straight away, caught between the temptation to laugh at the devious twist of Martin’s features as he very knowingly pushed his luck, and indulging in the rush of affection for him, and the stunning realisation that he was right on mark for once.

“I also spend a lot of time with Arthur.” Deborah drawled, batting her eyelashes, unable to truly take her eyes from Martin’s blue ones, as his small smile was infectious, even when it faltered slightly, “and he’s been here longer.”

“Yeah, but, if you had to pick one of us, it wouldn’t be _Arthur_ ,” Martin suggested in a stage whisper, ducking his head down to her level as if someone might walk in at any moment; he gestured to his chest with the tips of his fingers, “It would be _me_.”

“You seem incredibly invested in this idea Martin, should I be worried or flattered?” Deborah remarked, lifting her hand to delicately rap her knuckles against his raised ones, retracting it after a lingering moment as she watched Martin’s eyes follow the movement, a smile washing shallowly onto his lips.

“No, no – this is just a point of pride.” Martin shook his head, though his cheeks flushed a light shade of pink at the inference; Deborah ‘ah-ed’ in understanding, and nodded slowly, pouting slightly.

“I see…it always comes back to your pride.” Deborah remarked; she could feel her own smile settling between her cheeks, and with an exasperated sigh, she abandoned any inclination to lie; it might have been nice for Martin to understand how she felt about him, perhaps he would find it easier to get along with her, “I suppose so.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Martin teased, grinning wickedly; Deborah rolled her eyes and broke eye contact, pursing her lips in an attempt to appear irritable, “You’ll have to spell it out for me.”

“You’re an absolute arse.” Deborah muttered, scowling playfully as Martin leaned in to peer around her, moving in close enough to her shoulder that she could feel his chest moving up and down through her jacket; with an exasperated groan, she announced loudly, “You, Martin Crieff, are my best friend. Are you happy now?”

“Oh, very happy.” Martin drawled cheerfully, slipping an arm around her shoulders to squeeze affectionately at her upper arm; then he pulled away to meet her eyes and grinned, blushing as he tackled his nerves, “And…uh…you’re mine too.”

“Shut up Martin.” Deborah scoffed, but when she felt Martin’s arm slipping away, she raised her hand to hold his in place nonetheless, tickling her fingers over the back of his knuckles, “I better be your best friend after you made me say such a horrible thing.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Martin retorted sarcastically, his eyes flickering back and forth across the lines on her face, “That must have been very hard for you.”

“It was.” Deborah agreed, relishing his attentions, “Now…we’ve got a whole year to decide whether you’re helping me next Birling day.”


	24. Newcastle

**Newcastle**

Deborah had thought that this flight would be a decent run; it was only a quick hop over to Newcastle with some replacement pilots and straight home. But no, fate had decided that today was a day to be miserable.

And worst of all, there wasn’t even a good reason to feel depressed; Deborah wasn’t upset, like she might be with Martin, or angry, like she would be if Carolyn had made a terrible decision…no, she was just sad. Sad in an overarching, don’t bother anyone else with your bad mood kind of sad, that followed her around like a cartoon cloud.

Of all the people in the world, it turned out that they were transporting Hercules Shipwright. Deborah had actually been pleased at first to see a familiar face…until she had remembered that she disliked Herc as a general rule.

It wasn’t that he was a bad person; quite the contrary. Herc was polite, genial, loyal, and a raging feminist when put on a podium (to the point that it got him in trouble with actual women; as Carolyn had proved).

But Deborah always got the impression that he was looking down his nose at her. Oh, poor Deborah, the only woman in the pilot’s lounge. Poor Deborah, getting sacked from Air England for smuggling. Poor Deborah, still not Captain. Poor Deborah, dressed like a Bolivian tank commander.

And Carolyn liked him. Oh, she could bicker all she liked with him, but Deborah had known the woman long enough to know that Carolyn wouldn’t have argued so vehemently, or with such a shark-like smirk on her face, if she hadn’t been chasing the tail of some very immediate feelings.

So that put her in a bad mood. But sad?

The only explanation that Deborah could come up with relied upon the fact that she felt especially sad, as if her lungs were flooded with tangible…sadness…when Linda Fairbairn was in the room.

Martin had practically turned to jelly when he had seen her; Linda had barely even spoken before Martin had decided that ‘pilot’ plus ‘female’ was very interesting, enough to make him splutter and try to flirt anyway.

Deborah had remained mostly quiet throughout their communication. _She_ was pilot, and female. _She_ liked planes too; knowing what type of plane GERTI was  shouldn’t have been impressive when Deborah could name every plane in every airport they had ever been to.

She couldn’t hold it against Martin. No, a pretty woman likes all the same things that he likes; of course he fell all over her.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t like Deborah wanted Martin to want _her_ like that, it just wasn’t fair that Linda got so much attention when Deborah sat next to him every day, and he never looked at her twice.

But Martin clearly wanted Linda. Deborah didn’t even want him to want her…or maybe she did…just to prove that she wasn’t insignificant beside a woman that he had just met…or…she had no idea!

It was all so confusing! And she was miserable…all that Deborah knew was that she just wanted Linda to go away so that Martin could come back and talk to _her_ instead.

Which was ridiculous.

But true.

And last but not least, Martin still wanted to leave. After everything that they had been through, the man still wanted to get out as soon as possible and bugger off to another airline. Funnily enough, the slight watering around her eyes had brought back memories like a wave; not of Harry leaving, or his betrayal, but of the next day, when she had looked around what was then her house and realised that it was only her, all alone.

There were a lot of things that Deborah couldn’t quite fathom when it came to Martin Crieff, but the one thing that she knew with any degree of certainty was that she didn’t want to lose him.

To make things worse, the dreariness seemed to infect even the sanctity of the flight-deck, which Deborah was certain wouldn’t remain sanctified for much longer. She wouldn’t be surprised if Linda was one of those anomalies that Martin would willingly defy the CAA for…and he’d only known her for twenty minutes.

Once Martin had finished instructing Arthur on how best to keep Herc as happy as possible during the flight, and the door had clanged shut, Deborah turned infinitesimally towards him, keeping her expression cool and fractionally inquisitive.

“You’re sure it’s Herc you want to speak to?” Deborah asked, resting her elbow on the arm of her seat between them so that she could inspect her nails; it also created a wonderful barrier to distract Martin from trying to read too much into her expression.

Not that he would have, given how entranced he was by their guests.

“What do you mean?” Martin replied, eyes widening slightly, eyebrows rising just a little; he genuinely didn’t know what she meant.

Deborah knew that for her own sanity she should have left it at that, but she couldn’t stop herself from niggling, teasing him about the one thing that was bothering her to try and…she didn’t even know. Make him regret it? Make him feel too inadequate so that he would stop? Put the idea in his mind so that he would fail for her own sadistic pleasure?

Or…Deborah wanted him to be happy. She knew full well that when teased, Martin fought it with every fibre of his body.

It was evident that Martin had prioritised flying over romance, as his focus on Herc demonstrated. But if he focused on Linda…he couldn’t leave MJN. He could stay with them, even if the very idea made Deborah sick to her stomach.

But he might be happy. A different kind of happy to what he wanted, but a kind of happy that kept him with them.

“Not First Officer Linda, the plane-spotting pride of Penicuik?” Deborah inquired; she pointedly didn’t wince at the edge of bitterness in her tone. Thankfully, Martin didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, she can’t recommend me, can she?” Martin shrugged flippantly as he reached here and there adjusting the controls, his long fingers moving confidently between the buttons and dials, “She’s only my age; she’s hardly going to know the Chief Pilot.”

“She is about your age, yes,” Deborah feigned surprise, settling back stiffly in her seat, folding one leg over the other and wrapping her arms over her chest, “and rather nice, I thought.”

“Why, d’you think” Martin’s asked in shock; his cheeks didn’t flush red as they normally might, but his eyes bored into hers, as he leaned inwards just a fraction, “… d’you think she …”

“So, by the time we land in Newcastle, you’d ideally like a job recommendation from one of our passengers and a date from the other.” Deborah remarked shortly, smirking fleetingly, unable to make it last, so pursing her lips instead; they were just facts, but they made her want to choke.

“That’s not really feasible, is it?” Martin drew his bottom lip through his teeth, and Deborah had to force herself not to watch the movement; he was completely unconcerned, simply going about their usual pre-flight rituals.

“It’s an ambitious programme, certainly.” Deborah replied dully; not trusting herself to do much else, she picked at the loose threads around her epaulets. Never had she craved her own bed so early in the day.

oOoOoOo

If only she had a voice recorder, Deborah might have captured the wonderful little speech that Martin had just given in which he had told a woman he had known for only an hour that he liked her, that he might love her, but that actually he didn’t love her, and would never love her as much as he loved being a pilot.

Deborah had tried to send him a sympathetic little smile when he had walked red faced from the flight-deck, but he was gone before she could so much as clasp the bottom of his jacket between her fingers to catch his attention.

“Is he always like that?” Linda inquired from where she stood in front of the jump-seat, finally turning away from the door, which she had been staring at as if a sabre-toothed tiger had danced its way from the room.

As she had been left unceremoniously to fly the plane on her own, Deborah only spared the other woman a glance over her shoulder; the need to defend Martin was strong, as his blithering little announcement had stirred up the moths in her chest and lightened the sadness while simultaneously feeding its wrath, but she had to remind herself that to make sure he was happy, truly happy, she would need to be polite, and not ruin things for him any more than he already had.

“No.” Deborah sighed, shrugging lightly and thinning her lips, “He’s not terribly good at talking to other pilots, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Linda’s tone brightened in relief, and she placed a hand on the back of Deborah’s seat to support her weight; Deborah only restrained herself from telling her to get off as the woman was actually quite a nice person, and didn’t really deserve her distemper for something she hadn’t done, “I thought it was because I was a woman.”

“And he’s atrocious at talking to women,” Deborah continued, rolling her eyes affectionately, focusing on an image of Martin’s typical blush to deter any bitterness, “so I’m afraid you represent something of a Perfect Storm.”

There was a moment of quiet, in which Deborah heard Linda shift behind her, and she found herself hyper aware of everything that was going on around her.

“But you’re a pilot, and a woman.” Linda remarked slowly, confusion lacing her tone; Deborah glanced over her shoulder, to find that she was being inspected through furrowed eyebrows and a wrinkled nose.

“You know…” Deborah answered, exhaling drearily; there was no point pretending, that it didn’t make something pang in her chest, “I don’t think he’s even noticed.”

Linda hummed thoughtfully, and suddenly it became imperative that she stopped thinking whatever it was that she was thinking. Martin wanted this woman, apparently, and that was the best way to prevent him from gaining any ground in his hunt for a new job. Everyone was a winner; almost.

“You shouldn’t think too badly of Martin though.” Deborah insisted, adopting a jaunty tone that may have come across just a little bit desperate, “I know he can come on a bit strong, or a bit wet, but actually, once he calms down, he’s really funny.”

“Oh?” Linda made a non-committal sound, and Deborah pushed on, refusing to allow her time to think of any counters.

“Yes, and I know that little speech there sounded ridiculous, and perhaps a bit stalker-esque,” she explained, gripping the controls tightly in her hands, trying not to stiffen as she hated every word she was saying, no matter how true they were, “but actually, he was being…sweet.”

For a while, there was no response, and Deborah almost began to worry that she had said something wrong.

“Hmmm, maybe, but from what I’ve seen of his personality, I gather that he’s rather grating.” Linda said finally, shaking her head; a flash of indignation caught Deborah by the sails and it took very little effort to defend Martin’s honour.

“Yes, but he grows on you after a while.” She insisted, frowning at the accusation; there was nothing wrong with Martin. Linda should have been flattered that he had taken an interest in her when _she_ sat next to him every day and didn’t get a look in.

“Like I said, maybe.” Linda responded, and then she patted the back of the chair awkwardly, and began walking away, “I’m going to go and see how the rest of them are getting on.”

Deborah hummed her acknowledgement, and listened to the flight-deck door creak and then clang shut. Miserable. That was the only word for it. Miserable, and bloody confused as to what she was actually trying to achieve.

oOoOoOo

Apparently Martin was doing a good enough job of ruining all his chances in all areas by himself. And in such a beautifully Martin-ish way as well. She may have barely spoken to him for most of the day due to his preoccupation with everyone that wasn’t her, but Deborah was actually beginning to enjoy watching him bumble around from a distance.

Meanwhile, board games with Carolyn, Arthur, and Herc were just about varied enough to keep her mildly entertained. That, and the fact that Carolyn and Herc couldn’t quite keep themselves from bickering from across the aisle; it was sickening, and yet about as fun to watch as an action-movie train wreck.

“I’m surprised you’re even in here Deborah,” Carolyn remarked blithely as she shuffled her paper money; Deborah had been in a world of her own, so rather than replying and proving it, she raised an eyebrow and waited with thinned lips for the other woman to continue, “I thought that you and Martin were joined at the hip recently.”

“Only recently?” Herc interjected, glancing between them at much the same rate that Arthur was, but wearing a far different expression; while Arthur’s face was open, and his eyes flickered between them, looking on with mild caution, Herc’s lips had curled into a slight smirk as he settle for peering across at his old colleague, “What was wrong before that?”

“Oh, there’s always something wrong with those two.” Carolyn explained flippantly, leaving Deborah to bite her tongue to keep from swearing at one or both of them; she didn’t want to talk about her relationship with Martin with anyone, especially the two people most likely to hang it over her head, “They’re either in each other’s pockets, or at each other’s throats.”

“Quaintly put, Carolyn.” Deborah remarked snidely, thrusting her arms around her chest and glaring pointedly at the floor between them.

“Oh I see!” Herc nodded in understanding, and then turned away from Deborah, effectively ejecting her from the conversation for the sake of zoning in on Carolyn, “I imagine that after this you’ll be craving some peace and quiet.”

“Believe me, Herc,” Carolyn replied dryly, fixing his with a narrow eyed glare from above her fan of fake money, “This is the most peaceful it’s been on this plane for about a year.”

oOoOoOo

Finally back in Fitton, Deborah curled up on the porta-cabin’s sofa, bringing her knees up and sighing, doing nothing more than look about the mess that none of them ever got around to cleaning.

She supposed that the silver lining of the day was that Martin was neither leaving, nor abandoning her for another attractive First Officer. The only problem, was that Martin had spent most of his day trying to get another job, and trying to seduce someone else, and then to top it all off, Herc had shunned her one last time.

A lot of problems. Enough to justify moping on the sofa while the others pootled around doing whatever it was they were doing. Deborah suspected that Martin was probably still sitting with his feet up on the control panel in the flight deck, twiddling his Captain’s hat between his fingers and telling himself that they weren’t worth it anyway.

Following a thump as the lock jammed, the door to the porta-cabin swung open, and Deborah managed to settle herself properly, with her legs pointing toward the floor, in time see Arthur wander in, head turning this way and that until her caught sight of her.

“Are you alright Arthur?” Deborah inquired wanly as he strode to her side, flopping down on the sofa and making it dip under his weight, tipping her sideways until she had to catch herself from falling into him; his nose was crinkled in that pensive way that always spelled trouble.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Arthur answered hastily, smiling warmly to demonstrate just how fine he actually was, convincingly enough that Deborah nodded in acceptance, “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“And what might that be?” Deborah replied exhaustedly, turning nonetheless so that they could converse without having to twist and turn; it might turn out that Arthur’s problems would eclipse her own pathetic misery.

“It’s about Mum and Herc…” Arthur started, then he paused and pursed his lips, bringing his hands together until his eyes brightened with what must have been the best words; Deborah was already dreading whatever it was that he had to say, “It’s just…I was watching them, and I thought…do you think that maybe, even a little bit, they might… _like_ each other? Because I haven’t seen Mum like that with anyone, but they were arguing a lot as well-”

“Arthur!” Deborah raised her hand into the air between them, and Arthur fell mercifully silent; it was the last thing in the world that she wanted to contemplate, but the boy wanted to talk about it, and she wouldn’t deny him that, “Although Herc is gone, and there’s nothing to worry about…I agree that there may have been some chemistry there…”

“But is that really how that kind of thing works?” Arthur interjected, shaking his head and looking unconvinced.

“Are you interested because of your mother, or are you interested in how relationships work?” Deborah inquired, sensing that there was more to Arthur’s oddly insistent demeanour.

“Well, a bit Mum, but also a bit relationships…” Arthur explained furtively, but his face was turning red, and he couldn’t handle the pressure any longer, as the tension released from his shoulders and he sagged into the sofa, “It’s just, there’s this girl at the library that I’ve been talking to, and she’s really nice, and we’re getting on really well, but seeing Mum and Herc, it just occurred to me that even though we like each other, we’re nothing like that.”

Even though she would have loved to delve deeper into this newfound information, Deborah put aside her curiosity for the sake of placing her hands together over her lap and holding Arthur’s gaze as firmly as possible, becoming the wise and wonderful sage for his sake.

“Arthur, take it from me now – you will not approach relationships the same way that your mother does. You’re just not that type of person.”  Deborah explained decisively; Arthur listened rapt with attention, and it became even more imperative that she didn’t give in and make a joke, “Relationships, all relationships, are about chemistry. Sometimes that comes from a passion for things you have in common, and other times, like with Carolyn, that chemistry comes in the form of bickering over your differences, which incite passion.”

Arthur nodded, and his eyes dropped to stare into the middle distance. Feeling that she had done a job well done, Deborah relaxed back into the sofa, sliding until she was resting in the corner between the back and the arm.

“Deborah?” Arthur’s voice shattered the moment of peace that she had allowed herself, but Deborah simply hummed in response, peering belatedly across the sofa at him, barely taking in the tentative pinch of his expression, “Is that how you feel about Martin?”

Deborah didn’t lurch upright, but that would have been the next thing she had done had she not been able to stiffen, one hand curling over her knee as she stared pointedly at the ceiling.

“Martin’s my friend.” Deborah answered tensely, trying to manage her voice but knowing that she was failing, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do know what I mean.” Arthur insisted quietly; he was being stubborn, which was the one thing that Deborah had never quite been able to tackle successfully, especially not when her mind whirred so fast that it made her dizzy, or her stomach decided to flip, “I listen to you two bicker all the time, and I listen to you talk about him all the time, and I watch you looking at him, and you walk and sit far too close to him, and you only smile that big happy smile when you’re talking to him, and all of today you’ve been wearing your crying face even though you haven’t been crying-”

“Arthur, just stop!” Deborah closed her eyes, and when she opened them, it was to see Arthur’s big brown eyes batting at her, innocently awaiting her words; everything was spinning inside of her, as if into some cavern, and for a fleeting, insane moment, it occurred to her that if she put some of it into words for him, it might not get lost in the gaping hole, so she asked in what was almost a whisper, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes.” Arthur replied instantly, shuffling forwards on the sofa as if to prove how secretive he could be.

Deborah brought her knees up to wrap her arms around, and picked at the thread on her tights, trying to ignore the tremble of her lips.

“Martin’s my friend, and I care about him…a lot.” Deborah admitted softly, picking particularly violently, and making sure not to look Arthur in the eyes, “And I _do_ feel…I feel a lot of things, about him…there are lots and lots of _feelings_ …and I, I can’t – all of these feelings, they’re all confused!” Deborah shook her head and pursed her lips, but swallowed hard and forced herself to push on, even against the furious flurrying in her chest that threatened to clench at her throat, “I’m just so confused, and I don’t know how I’m feeling, even though there’s so much going on-”

“Are they good feelings, or bad feelings?” Arthur cut in, not sounding nearly as nervous as he should have, though Deborah didn’t even peek at his face; at his words, the moths that raged in her chest didn’t stop, but it was as if their wings lit up, all glowing on the same wavelength for once.

“Good feelings.” Deborah replied; she thought that she felt her lips curling into a smile, but the moment that the thought entered her mind, it was washed away, “It’s just confusing…I _know_ how I feel about Martin, I just don’t know what I _want_ , and it’s all getting messed and twisted in my head…”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Arthur offered; Deborah finally raised her head, to see the open, concerned look on his face, and the answer was fully formed.

“No thank you, Arthur,” she said swiftly, adopting her casual, business-like tone and smiling thinly, “In fact I’d rather be left alone…I’m tired after all.”

“Oh…oh, alright then.” Arthur nodded slowly, wetting his lips and sounding thoroughly disappointed; he rose from the sofa nonetheless, and looked down at her dejectedly, “I’ll just go and hoover GERTI then.”

Deborah nodded, but offered no further words of comfort or plea; she didn’t feel better, or as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. If anything, it was like a chill had taken root in her guts, reminding her that now the mess inside her head was out in the open, when even she couldn’t make sense of it.

With only the minimal amount of bustling that Arthur could produce, he disappeared from the porta-cabin, leaving Deborah alone to muse on the fact that she most certainly had feelings for Martin…but she had no idea if she even wanted to.

oOoOoOo

An hour later, and Deborah was still in the porta-cabin, though she had migrated to her desk shortly after Arthur had left. It wasn’t that she wanted to be there, but more that she didn’t particularly have any inclination to go home either, which left her to drift about in thought.

The door opened after a small fight, and Martin flounced in, humming a steady tune under his breath. When his eyes fell upon Deborah, his face lit up, and a wide smile overtook his lips, making little crinkles appear either side of his eyes as he made a beeline for the desks and lowered himself into his chair, spinning so that he was facing her.

Deborah mirrored his arrangement, and couldn’t help but smile wanly in return.

“I wondered where you’d gone.” Martin remarked, plucking his hat from his head and placing it on the desk, shuffling a little closer as he did so, putting only a few feet between them, before leaning back, his hands linking in front of him.

“I’ve been here.” Deborah replied, casting her arms through the air to encompass the entirety of the porta-cabin, before making a show of dragging her eyes over his face and tapping a finger against her lips, “You’re looking rather cheerful for someone who’s been rejected twice in one day.”

“Yeah, well, neither the job nor the date were ever _really_ going to happen, were they?” Martin shrugged nonchalantly, and quirked both eyebrows conspiratorially in an attempt to bolster some sort of camaraderie.

“But I thought that you’d be more disappointed.” Deborah pushed; it didn’t make sense really. Martin was the sort that tried and tried again, no matter how dejected it made him feel; it was part of the reason she admired him so much.

“I _am_ disappointed about not getting an interview, but you know what?” Martin answered, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth and blinking tiredly, “I’m sort of relieved that Linda said no.”

“Bit you spent all day with her, I thought you liked her.” Deborah insisted, sitting forwards, resting one arm atop the desk, her palm down; the fluttering in her chest became a sort of befuddled stutter.

“No, I didn’t like her. She was defensive, and to be honest, I don’t think there was actually anything about her after twenty minutes that I wanted to date,” Martin exclaimed, having the decency to look sheepish and abashed, “She said the same – she said ‘Martin, I don’t think it’s _me_ you’re thinking about.’”

“Then who _were_ you thinking about?” Deborah dared to ask, fighting the sudden temptation to swallow as the pit of her throat became a little heavier; Martin sighed, and she watched his throat bob as he shook his head helplessly.

“Honestly…I reckon I was just trying to impress _you_.” Martin admitted, eyes tracing over the desktop as his cheeks flushed red; that was lucky, as it meant that he couldn’t see Deborah’s expression falter, nor her cheeks blanch.

“ _How_ would seducing another woman impress me?” Deborah inquired, aiming for humorous, or flippant, but landing to near to airy; Martin however seemed too wrapped up in his own shortcomings to pay that much heed.

“I don’t know…it’s just, you were teasing me about her, so I thought _‘I’ll show her’_ , and, the next thing I know-” Martin described his thought pattern with as much confidence as he did when picking food from a menu, one hand turning concentrically in the air, “I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense _now_ , but at the time, it was perfect.”

With a gratuitous exhale that mingled with a groan, Martin let his hand drop with a thud onto the desk top, only inches from hers. Deborah watched curiously as his eyes narrowed softly where they were fixed on the offending limb, and held herself still and relaxed as he slid his hand to lie beside hers, almost as if he weren’t entirely conscious of what he was doing.

“You know, I’ve missed you today.” Martin murmured, so softly that Deborah almost didn’t hear it, so focused as she was on the way that as he spoke the words, he raised his fingers lightly, and brushed the backs of his knuckles against the backs of hers, sending miniscule shivers through the adjoining capillaries.

It was like holding her breath and breathing too fast. Normally she might have handled it better, but after the day she had had, Deborah was about ready to collapse inwards into the frantic flittering beneath her skin.

“I was only in the cabin.” Deborah replied softly, her eyes flickering between their hands and Martin’s face, which was gazing with an almost detached intensity at the desk. She turned her hand over, her fingers brushing his as she lay her palm up; slowly, Martin’s long, bony fingers shifted and crept over hers, not holding, simply curling reflexively.

Deborah mused on how strange it was that she could sit next to the man every day, hear him all the time, and yet the sensation of his skin against hers made her hand prickle and delve into hypersensitivity, as she analysed every factor, from dryness, to grip, to size.

“I know that,” Martin remarked, slightly louder; Deborah’s gaze snapped to his face as her eyebrows quirked without her permission, and Martin seemed to centre himself, smirking and rolling his eyes in a self-deprecating manner; his hand didn’t move, “it’s just, I feel like I’ve thrown away my allotted hours with you.”

Deborah opened her mouth, and Martin cocked his head, hanging on her every unspoken word, so she paused and wetted her lips, unusually tentative under his pleasant scrutiny. It was still strange, even after so much time, to have him so eager to be around her; even her husbands had been adamant about having time _apart._

She wasn’t going to waste it, no matter how confusing it was.

“If truancy is what’s worrying you, then you can always make it up to me by…accompanying me to the coffee shop?” she suggested, unconsciously curling her fingers around his; she almost stuttered when he responded in kind, never taking her eyes from hers, “As the one at fault, you’d of course be paying.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Martin chuckled lightly, his cheeks blossoming with colour as he wavered between a smirk and a cheerful smile that practically made his whole figure glow; Deborah mused that for once, she might have been really, truly, happy, “I’d like that.”


	25. Interlude 9

**Interlude 9**

One of the things that Deborah had learnt about the weeks that she was left alone with her daughter, was that even though at first they both would want to spend every moment together, catching up and the likes, they also both possessed the sort of personality that demanded hours of silence and isolating.

That didn’t necessarily mean being apart, but it did mean that Deborah could sit on one side of the sofa reading a book, and Verity could sit by the coffee table entertaining herself, and the two of them could coexist peacefully, trading the occasional snippet of parent-child conversation, while enjoying the feeling of being somewhat sociable.

The whole set-up was wonderful really. Deborah could watch her little girl, her fluffy brown hair and wide eyes seeming to sparkle more each time they met, nattering away to herself, without worrying about the fact that having to keep her entertained for every second of the day was…suffocating…for both of them.

But, she supposed, that was what happened when you didn’t see one another for extended periods of time.

She had allowed Verity to sleep in until ten that morning, but as the girl was an active seven year old, Deborah suspected that she had heard her talking to her stuffed animals at half six when she had wandered past the bedroom.

Then after a morning of unpacking, which Verity insisted had to be done every time she stayed with her mother, regardless of the fact that everything she owned was returned to her father at the end of the week, Deborah had given in to the slightly whiny demands for sweets, and put all of her efforts into dramatically revealing her cookie recipe bit by bit, as Verity darted about the kitchen.

Perched on a chair around the kitchen table, an oversized apron wrapped and tied at her back, Verity allowed her Deborah to pull up a chair less than a foot away, and supervise her creations; Deborah had been told adamantly that she could do it by herself, but then in a whisper, that secretly subtle helping might be allowed.

An all-round cloak of contentedness settled over Deborah, like the golden toes of butterflies warming her skin, as she kept one eye on Verity’s focused expression, and the other on the mess of bowls and whisks, and held one hand daintily underneath the little girl’s elbow as she tried to thrust piles of flour from the hefty bag and into the mixing bowl.

“I think you might need a little more flour, dear.” Deborah remarked, as Verity made as if to plop the bag down; she stiffened her hand as an extra imperative, as she suspected that the carelessness with which the child was about to drop the flour might send it flying in all directions.

“No, Mummy, that’s enough.” Verity answered, pouting her lips as she smiled knowledgably; despite Deborah’s efforts, the bag was dropped unceremoniously onto the table, but only released spiracle little clouds, “I want it to be gloopy.”

“Yes, but if it’s _too_ gloppy, you won’t be able to roll it and cut it into shapes.” Deborah retorted lightly; she shifted so that she could lay an arm over the back of her daughter’s chair, and scooched in closer.

Verity rolled her eyes and let out a dramatic exhale, shaking her head as if despairing her mother’s foolishness; nonetheless, she grasped the bag of flour and hoisted it into the air, dropping lumps here and there as her tiny hands battled for grip.

“Fine!” Verity groaned, tipping the bag up over the mixing bowl, sending far too much into the mix, her eyebrows dipping to meet above her nose, “Lots and lots and lots of flour. For extra roll-able cookies.”

“Good girl.” Deborah congratulated her, leaning her chin on the girl’s shoulder; Verity tapped a grimy hand against Deborah’s cheek and smiled as if petting her cat, and Deborah sighed, reaching out to wrap one arm around her little waist, while the other took the flour from her, “Now…I think we should add more butter and sugar to join all that extra flour.”

“Hmm…” Verity hummed, and nodded severely, leaning her cheek against her mother’s, and eyeing the mixture, whilst patting her hands together, compounding the mess to Deborah’s silent despair, “I’m going to make a hundred thousand cookies with the extra flour.”

Deborah chuckled, and continued moving the ingredients to where Verity could reach them, keeping a loose hold on her daughter.

“If you can make a hundred thousand cookies, I will be very impressed.” She drawled, unable to keep the faint smile from her face; children were difficult, and talked a lot of nonsense, but Deborah could have held onto her forever given the chance.

Verity grinned and lurched forwards, sinking her hands into the mixture with glee, nattering about how she could definitely make a hundred thousand if she was given some time. Deborah merely watched in silence, humming here and there.

It wouldn’t do to discourage her. That was something Deborah’s father had always been a champion of.

Where other parents in the playground had been telling their children that they didn’t know the answers to the strange questions they asked, or echoed ‘don’t be silly’ at their erratic exclamations, Mr Richardson had followed up every inquisitive (or sometimes derisive) remark with the words ‘I don’t know, maybe, if you work hard enough, you’ll find out’.

‘I don’t know, maybe you can become a scientist and work that out for us’

‘I don’t know, maybe one day you could travel the world and find out, paint enough pictures that you find a new colour, write so much music you discover the most beautiful sound, talk loud enough that you change the face of politics…’

Even so many years on, Deborah didn’t know if she had lived up to her father’s expectations. True, she had excelled at everything she had tried and had at least fifty talents to her name, and so ticked that box.

But she was also having to relish a week with her own daughter because she had frittered away her youth on drink and wavering educational choices, lost two marriages and the father of her child, and lost said child for all but only 15% of the year.

Deborah supposed that she was content. He’d have liked that at least.

The shrill whine of the phone rang out from the sitting room, and Deborah rose swiftly to her feet, giving Verity’s shoulders a quick squeeze as she passed; she stayed mercifully quiet as Deborah took the phone in her hand and pressed it to her ear.

“ _Deborah-”_ Carolyn’s voice rattled into her ear before she had time to say so much as hello, and Deborah shook her head, pursing her lips at the slight edge in her employer’s voice that screamed ‘do something for me’.

“No, Carolyn, whatever it is, I’m not doing it.” Deborah said tartly, placing one hand on her hop and turning so that she could see Verity, completely engrossed in her baking, an intense concentration clouding her eyes, “I booked this week off to spend with my daughter, and I’m not cutting it short.”

“ _I know, and I wouldn’t ask if it could be done another time,”_ Carolyn had the decency to sound almost apologetic, and Deborah paid allowed her to keep speaking in a show of silent gratitude, “ _I don’t need you to fly, or sit on standby – you could bring your daughter with you, but I just need you to be at the airfield tomorrow.”_

“I don’t understand,” Deborah replied, shaking her head even though she couldn’t be seen, “What’s so important that I have to be there, but so unimportant that a seven year old could attend?”

She heard Carolyn sigh down the line, and felt a flicker of pride at the ease with which she had beaten her down.

“ _I’ve managed to snaffle a proper photographer to take company photos, but he can only do tomorrow, and no other time.”_ Carolyn explained; Deborah could have thwacked her for all that she had been inwardly worrying about how Martin and Arthur would cope performing some terrible job without her, “ _I need the three of you here…your daughter can come along, bring some colouring books, or whatever it is children do these days – you’re not going to be so busy that you can’t look after her. The photographer says that his style is…relaxed, whatever that means.”_

Deborah sighed and closed her eyes, placing the back of her hand over her eyelids; as ridiculous as the proposal was, she quite fancied the idea of pratting around in front of a camera with Martin. And it was entirely true that Verity could be easily entertained.

Placing the receiver over her chest to muffle the sounds, Deborah considered briefly her options, and then came to a decision.

“Verity?” she called, and the girl lifted her head immediately, proving that she had in fact been listening all along; not that Deborah would have expected any different, “How do you feel about going to the airfield tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Verity squealed, before Deborah even had time to note that she could play with the plane and have her picture taken (she wasn’t doing it at all if she didn’t get at least one nice one taken with her daughter).

Blinking in bewilderment, Deborah lifted the phone back to her ear.

“I’ll do it.” She remarked, still bristling slightly at the disturbance, but willing to play nice seeing as Verity was in the other room, well within earshot, and more than likely to repeat anything untoward that she said, “But bear in mind that if my daughter had said she wanted to stay in tomorrow, you’d be taking your company pictures without a First Officer.”

 _“I will make a note of it.”_ Carolyn replied, and Deborah smirked at the words that she knew were very probably being restrained; she was under no illusions that Carolyn would feel guilty, but it was nice to dream, “ _Just make sure that the two of you are here bright and early…I’ll have Arthur pick up some paint or something on his way in.”_

And just like that Deborah was the one feeling a mite sheepish; she scratched at her elbow and let her gaze slip from her daughter as she wandered over to the window.

“That would be good, thank you.” Deborah acknowledged, sighing, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that she cut off the call, unwilling to talk any longer; it was a childish act of defiance, she was aware, but Deborah just about managed to relish the moment of triumph, for what it obviously wasn’t.

Putting on a cheerful smile, breezing her hands through the air and down her form, Deborah wandered back into the kitchen, where Verity was trying unsuccessfully to mush her mixture onto a now well-floured table. The little girl peeked conspicuously up at her as Deborah dropped back into her seat.

“Dare I ask why you’re so excited to go to the airfield?” Deborah inquired softly, reaching across to rub away a splodge of gloppy mess from her daughter’s cheek with her thumb; Verity pursed her lips, and her eyes widened as if she had been caught red handed at the scene of a crime, but she carefully adopted a prim expression.

“Because of some reasons that I’m not telling you, because they’re not important.” Verity answered delicately, shooting her sideways glances as she pointedly kneaded the cookie dough, pouting when it crumbled and diverted her attention.

“Oh really?” Deborah drawled, nodding sagely as she tutted and moved to push Verity’s sleeves up her arms, though it was already too late, and the sleeves were matted with flour and egg, “That sounds quite interesting to me.”

“Nope.” Verity popped the syllable from her tongue, eyes never leaving the mess between her hands; without pausing or wavering, she asked, “Will Martin be there?”

“I think he will, yes.” Deborah replied suspiciously, letting her lips curl into a smile at her daughter’s attempts at furtiveness, as she rested both arms on the table, content to simply watch the child play, “Why?”

“No reason.” Verity chirped, and then to Deborah’s bewilderment, she continued in the low mutter than children seem to use when they think that they’re talking to themselves, “I just want to know if he looks like what I think he looks like.”

oOoOoOo

By the next morning, Deborah had forgotten Verity’s words. Which was why when the two of them were at the airfield, Deborah in uniform, Verity in the smart dress that she had been told she didn’t need to wear, and they gathered in the porta-cabin to wait for the Knapp-Shappey clan and the photographer to arrive, Deborah was unable to censor the first thing that came out of her daughter’s mouth when she was introduced to Martin.

“You’re prettier than I thought you’d be, but not as pretty as you sounded when Mummy describes you.”

“Oh? Really?” Martin replied in a surprised, reedy tone as his cheeks flushed a dark shade of red; he was perched in his wheelie chair, hands together, arms rested on his knees as he looked down at the little girl that stood a foot in front of him, her arms folded lightly over her chest as she surveyed him as one might a house for sale, searching for indiscretions, “That’s…good I suppose…um…thank you.”

Martin glanced helplessly up at Deborah, where she leant against the side of his desk, wide eyed like a baby deer; she tried not to focus on the heat in her own cheeks, and shrugged nonchalantly, winding her arms around her chest after pausing briefly to nudge at the back of her daughter’s head.

“Verity, it’s not polite to say things like that when you meet people.” Deborah reminded her lightly, trying to stop her eyes from flickering back to Martin’s; the moment that Verity was gone, he would never let her live that comment down.

“But I was being nice.” Verity retorted, shaking her head and crinkling her nose in response before turning her attention back to Martin, who was still tensed, yet visibly trying to appear relaxed, “And you’re Martin?”

“Um, yes – yes, I think your mother said that. I’m Martin.” Martin winced slightly, but smiled widely when he caught sight of Deborah nodding emphatically through pursed lips and wide eyes; he clapped his hands together and gestured to the girl, who remained calm throughout, “And you’re Verity.”

“And my middle name is Rose.” Verity added, oblivious to his flustering; Deborah rolled her eyes affectionately, and held her tongue as Martin nodded hastily, his posture rising slightly as he gained an inch of gravitas, as he always did when confident. She was already enjoying watching them interact; there was no doubt that Verity already liked him.

“Oh, Verity Rose?” Martin remarked, leaning forwards and tenting his hands, bringing his fingers together, as he smiled eagerly, “That sounds like the perfect name for a kind of…super secret detective.”

An exasperated dread settled over Deborah even before Verity’s eyes widened, and her mouth gaped open as if she had seen the true meaning of life, and found it to be good; she turned slowly, face sparkling as she gazed imploringly up at her mother, and danced towards her.

“Mummy, I want to be a detective!” Verity announced, her voice filled with wonderment as her hands gripping at the hem of Deborah’s uniform jacket, “Can I be a detective?”

Deborah caught Martin’s eye from across the top of her daughter’s head, and quirked an eyebrow at him, swallowing to prevent herself from ripping into him as she might normally have done; Martin had the grace to blush further and grimace apologetically, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

“I’m sure if you try hard enough, you can do whatever you want.” Deborah told Verity, unfolding her arms to place her hands gently on the girl’s shoulders as she beamed, “Just make sure to learn exactly what detectives do in their jobs.”

Verity nodded excitedly, and without another word, she scrambled across the porta-cabin to dig through the bag of supplies that she had brought with her for the day.

Exhaling slowly, Deborah pushed away from the desk and wandered around the back of Martin’s chair, pleased to see him turn his head to watch her path, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth; when she stood directly behind him, Deborah leant down, hands on the back of the seat, until she could speak into his ear without Verity overhearing.

“In twenty years when she’s being held at gunpoint by armed criminals,” Deborah remarked lightly, tracing her eyes from his lips to his cheeks to his blue eyes that turned with his head to meet her gaze, “I’m going to hold you accountable.”

Martin swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted down to her lips before snapping back to hold her gaze; his hands were gripping the side of his chair.

“Well, in twenty years, I’ll be uh…” Martin replied, shrugging lopsidedly and attempting another apologetic smile, “In twenty years I’ll be very sorry…about that.”

Deborah smirked, and was about to say something that would have made Martin tremble, but she was interrupted by Verity’s shrill and demanding voice, which made both pilots turn their heads to hear what she had to say.

“I need one of you to teach me how to fly your plane.”

oOoOoOo

It turned out that Carolyn’s ‘professional photographer’ was in fact a university student who _wanted_ to be a professional photographer, and was willing to work for free so that he could note the time down as ‘work experience’.

As a result, his style of work was very much, ‘make it up as I go along’, and though Deborah tried not to stare at his dyed black hair that made him look as if he had jaundice, or roll her eyes are stare in horror as he directed them about, the chances of her succeeding were slim.

They had all gathered on the patch of grass beside where GERTI had been parked in what was apparently a very artistic pose beneath the glaring heat of the sun, with crates (which Deborah had never seen before in her life) placed strategically here and there beneath the wings and open hold in an attempt at minimalism, or something similar.

While the young man, clutching a camera as if it contained the world, explained to the crew his vision, Deborah kept one eye on Verity, who appeared to be building herself a house from the debris left behind after the grounds people had mowed the lawn; lovely and filthy – her father was going to explode when he saw the state of her dress.

“Okay, what I’m going to do, is take some pictures with all four of you together, then I’m going to split you up and take other ones.” The photographer (whose name Deborah must have missed when she was trying to riddle him out) explained, with plenty of dramatic hand movements, as he practically quivered with confident excitement.

Deborah glanced to Martin, who was standing with his hands buried deep within his pockets; he smirked conspiratorially, and cocked his head ever so slightly, swinging on his heels. She returned the smirk tenfold, and rolled her eyes towards the young man, only to have Martin shake his head imperceptibly and duck his head down. Typical.

“Right, so now, everyone move in together so that I can do the group photo.” The photographer instructed, waving his arm like a runway instructor, already wielding the camera like a weapon.

One by one, the crew managed to settle into some sort of group, after much faffing about trying to decide where to stand, and then making sure that the tallest (Arthur) was near the back and that the shortest (Carolyn) wasn’t on the end lest the picture become unbalanced. Eventually, with a far more dejected photographer, the movement ceased, and Carolyn stood between Arthur and Martin, and Deborah stood by Martin’s side, arms folded over her chest.

By that point Verity had wandered over and sat cross legged beside the photographer, observing the proceeding in silence; Deborah smiled and waggled her fingers at her, but the girl was too busy being pensive and plotting to pay much notice.

“It’s too hot to be standing around in the sun!” Carolyn announced, frowning even as she kept her hands clasped professionally at her front; she glared at the photographer with the sort of heat that made lesser men quail, “Hurry up and take some pictures before I take that camera from you and do it myself.”

“Sorry, sorry…just a tick.” The young man murmured, in such a way that Deborah actually felt sorry for him; he raised the camera to his eye and chewed at his lip, and then dropped it again, face pinching as he surveyed the crew, “You’re all quite far away from each other…could you maybe tuck in – just so that the picture quality’s better.”

“Can do!” Arthur replied for the rest of them, herding Carolyn towards Martin without further ado, before noting for no one’s sake but his own, “This is brilliant, isn’t it?”

“It would be more brilliant if I wasn’t being forced to squeeze between you two.” Carolyn muttered, even as Arthur wedged himself to her side, and reached around her back to hook his fingers into Martin’s jacket and pull them closer together.

The next few minutes flew past in a blur of pushing, elbows, and many ‘ow’s, mostly from Martin, as they all tried to arrange themselves around each other according to the photographer’s vague instructions. Deborah grinned at Verity as the little girl laughed at the farce, and only stepped back to Martin’s side once the fussing and prodding had calmed.

It took half the time for the photographer to lower his camera.

“Um…you, Miss – Madam- on the end-” Deborah took pity on the young man, and nodded politely, raising her eyebrow at the arm that was already eagerly escaping its master and making arcs in the air; he let out a nervous laugh, but carried on, “It’s just, you don’t really look like you’re part of the group – if you could squish in with the others, then you’d look less like you were just dropped on the end.”

Deborah rolled her eyes, but took another step to Martin’s side, until her arm was pressed against his; as she heard Verity remark that ‘ _that’s my Mummy_ ’, she glanced up to meet Martins’ gaze, as he smile weakly, just as uncomfortable as she was.

“Is that better?” Deborah asked dryly, feeling the weight of the sun through her jacket already.

“No, it still looks unbalanced.” The photographer shook his head, and shrugged helplessly, even going so far as to glance down at Verity as if the seven year old might hold some answer, though all she did was open up her palms and shake her head around until her hair fell in her face.

Carolyn huffed, but the sound was drowned out as Martin exhaled exasperatedly and muttered.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Martin scoffed, and before Deborah was entirely aware of what he was doing, he had thrown his arm around her waist and tucked her into his side, to the point where she had to return to gesture and wrap her arm around his back, and try not to turn too far lest she was hugging him, “Is that better?!”

“That’s great actually!” the photographer replied, sending them a hearty thumbs up and sticking his tongue out to pinch between his teeth as he raised the camera again and began making adjustments.

Deborah might have taken a moment to consider the fluttering that increased in her chest at the gesture, but her attention was caught so many ways, between keeping a close eye on her daughter, a hyper-awareness of the others around them and Carolyn’s muttering to Arthur, and on stretching up just enough that she could make use of the flurry of sardonic remarks that splintered at the first rush of pleasant surprise.

“Is this an entirely professional pose, Captain?” she inquired, taking care not to rest her cheek on the stiff fabric about his shoulder, as a gesture caught on camera was a gesture captured forever.

“Not really, but it gets the job done.” Martin replied smartly; he was standing stiffly despite how he was holding her tightly, his fingers curling around her waist. The precisely formulated expression on his face was too much for Deborah not to look at, and with a flash of sordid victory, she realised that he must have been watching her too, from the corner of his eyes, as his cheeks were growing redder, and his lips were threatening to tremble into a smile.

Deborah began to chuckle as the photographer called for attention, and by the time she looked ahead, and the electronic click went off, Martin was chuckling too, his chest vibrating against her side. When she turned back to him, he crinkled his nose at her petulantly, but with no heat to speak of.

“That was great guys! You two were even smiling!” the photographer hurried forwards to place the camera in Carolyn’s hands, laughing thankfully at the two of them as the sound of Verity clapping acted as a backing track to the bundle of nerves.

It was decided, for the sake of time, that that picture would do, as everyone was facing the right way and didn’t look as if they’d rather be anywhere else (although Martin had muttered in Deborah’s ear that Carolyn was suffering from selective blindness where herself was concerned).

Then the photographer went about splitting them up and taking individual photos, and matching up different people depending on some scheme in his head that only he understood. Deborah made sure to follow Martin around to avoid the fuss emanating from both the young man, and Carolyn, who both grew more antsy as the day wore on.

Verity had managed to persuade the photographer to take a picture of her in her mother’s arms, and Deborah had tried not to laugh at the faces that Martin was pulling behind the young man’s back while beaming internally and externally as Verity practically bathed in the attention.

Now it was apparently the pilot’s turn, and while Arthur and Carolyn had disappeared for the moment, Verity stood by the photographer’s side as he stood just a tad too close to them, and tried to convince them to adjust _their_ positions.

“I just need you to stand closer together so that you both fit in the frame.” He insisted, visibly drooping from exhaustion, but soldiering on in a way that was almost admirable.

Deborah sighed, folding her arms over her chest, and once again shared an exasperated ‘look’ with Martin, who was pursing his lips and rubbing a hand over his eyes; she was sure that they were silently communicating on how best to tie up the young man and escape, but then again, when was Martin ever on the same page as her?

“Couldn’t you just stand further away and use the zoom setting?” Deborah suggested, but the man shook his head vehemently, unable to even open his mouth before Verity cut him off, pressing her hands together like a wise sage.

“Maybe Martin could put his arm around Mummy like in the other picture.” Verity interjected, nodding eagerly as if that might make her suggestion even more appealing.

And once Verity had suggested it, Deborah couldn’t say no. So after twenty minutes, they had at least twenty pictures of she and Martin, some usable, others quite nice, with Martin’s arm around her, their heads together, smiling nicely at the camera, and others that were perfect in all but their usability. As much as it made her grin, (and Martin too, though he blushed and tried to hide it beneath his hand) Deborah didn’t think that Carolyn would approve of a photo of the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms, scrunching their faces at the camera, or the one in which Deborah had broken character and kiss Martin on the cheek to make him flush.

It was only when she was helping Verity tie up her shoe that she heard Martin furtively asking the photographer if he could have copies; the thought made Deborah want to fold in on herself with the warmth that it sent shivering through her, but she settled instead for snuggling her daughter.

So the day progressed, and the photographer began disappearing, allowing the crew to go about their own business, until he reappeared in the wake of a flash and a click, having just caught what he called ‘natural’ poses.

One such event occurred when Deborah had left Verity to teach Arthur some obscure form of hopscotch, and wandered over to sit beside Martin on one of the crates below the wing in order to escape from the sun.

The clouds vanished and harsh rays of light slashed the shade down to size, and as Deborah shuffled further onto the crate, Martin had shifted to accommodate, slipping her arm around her to help her move away from the sun without even pausing their conversation, holding her gaze the entire time.

Then flash – the photographer had appeared from nowhere and commented on how ‘lovely’ they looked together.

Martin had spluttered, and Deborah remained unusually silent, but the young man didn’t seem truly interested. He wandered off, and Verity replaced him, charging across the grass to demand that she be allowed to fly the plane now.

And it was only mid-afternoon.

oOoOoOo

Deborah paused outside the open door of the flight-deck before going in. It was early evening now, and it was getting cold outside, so she had left Verity with Martin while she fetched her their coats from the porta-cabin for the sake of the walk to the car.

Despite all the fuss and the hassle, Deborah found herself nearing the end of the day with a rounded sense of cheer and contentment, somewhat bolstered by how joyful her daughter had been throughout the entire ordeal.

Now, it almost felt like her heart was trying to trip and fall from her chest as she took in the sight before her; they clearly hadn’t realised that she was back.

Martin was sat forward in his seat, and he had one arm curled around Verity where she sat on his lap, reaching here there and everywhere as he explained what this and that did, calmly, with no sense of the trepidation that he had been exuding only hours before.

Deborah leant back against the metal framework as she took in the rapt attention on Verity’s face as her eyes followed Martin’s free hand around the flight deck, and the complete devotion on Martin’s as he turned his head between the instruments, and her daughter, adjusting his hold to make sure that she didn’t fall as she shuffled about.

He had even placed his Captain’s hat on her head, and reached up every now and then to straighten it, or push back the hair that got caught in the braid.

“And this is the artificial horizon,” Martin murmured quietly, compensating for the tired sluggishness in Verity’s movements and directing her towards the correct point on the control panel, allowing her to tap it curiously, “That helps us see if we’re flying the plane levelly.”

“Will it tell you if you’re flying upside down?” Verity inquired, glancing up at Martin as if he were the font of all knowledge, pawing slightly at the lapel of his jacket.

“I think it might know even before our eyes know.” Martin replied, chuckling softly and giving her a little squeeze.

As he reached across to show her how the ground-proximity warning worked, Deborah pulled her arms around her chest, her palm flattening against her abdomen in an attempt to contain the lurch into the flight-deck and just take a hold of them both to see if that might temper the furious fluttering of the moths that might as well have been inflamed in her chest.

“Martin?” Verity asked severely; Deborah cocked her head attentively, as Martin ceased his explanation and hummed in acknowledgement, placing his free hand on his knee as his eyes trained on the little girl, promising his full attention; she looked thoughtful for a moment, and then blinked rapidly, “I liked you…can we see you next time I stay with Mummy?”

Martin’s watery, wide-eyed nod of understanding as he opened his mouth slightly was barely a reflection of the heart-wrenching tug at Deborah’s ribs, as she didn’t know whether to be thrilled or ashamed at such a request.

“I think that’s up to you mother I’m afraid,” Martin replied apologetically, but upon seeing the droop in Verity’s smile, his arm wrapped a little tighter around her and he smiled encouragingly, “But I’d like it if she said yes…I could take you both out for dinner if you-”

The rest of his offer was cut off by a little ‘oomph’ as Verity lurched forwards and wrapped her arms around his chest, burying her face in the fabric of his uniform; Martin’s hands immediately went to her back, and began rubbing small circles.

Unable to linger outside any longer, Deborah stepped into the flight-deck, clearing her throat to alert them to her presence; the next moment she wished that she hadn’t, as she wished she could have kept the image of them seared into her mind, but instead, Verity sat up straight and her face lit up at the sight of her, despite everything.

Verity extended her arms, and Deborah obediently lifted her from Martin’s grasp as he supported her weight until she was properly passed over, and began fitting her into her coat and Martin stood and waited on by the side of his chair.

“Did you two have fun while I was gone?” Deborah inquired, looking between the two of them, forcing a smile that didn’t reveal the tumbling that was taking place inside her head.

“Yes, I like Martin.” Verity answered swiftly as she slipped her arms into her coat and adjusted herself so that she could rest against her mother’s side and fiddle with her collar, “We should keep him.”

“She was very well behaved.” Martin added quietly, smiling warmly and nodding, hands joined in front of him; Deborah wasn’t sure whether he was looking at her or her daughter, as his eyes flickered affectionately between the two of them.

“Good…that’s good, thank you for watching her.” Deborah replied, hearing her own voice and thinking that it came out far too clogged and low for it to be acceptable; for a moment it was like she couldn’t quite take her eyes from Martin’s, and she was so aware of the space between them that it seemed to shrink almost, before she cleared her throat and looked away, “Well, I should take her home now.”

Martin nodded quickly and dragged his lip through his teeth, but Verity sat up straighter when Deborah made to move hastily past him.

“And Martin, you have to kiss Mummy on the cheek because that’s what you do when you say goodbye to a lady.” Verity said firmly, glancing between them; Deborah started to jostle her playfully and tell her to behave as Martin blushed considerably, but Martin shook his head quickly, quirking his eyebrows, so she allowed him to speak.

“But I didn’t have to kiss _you._ ” He argued playfully, winking at Deborah as if Verity wouldn’t see it.

“I’m not a lady, I’m a little girl.” Verity retorted, and with that she dropped her head back to Deborah’s shoulder.

Martin nodded slowly, and shrugged, unable to find any way to debate such a fine point, making a show of his defeat as Verity’s eyes still bore into the space between them. Deborah knew that she should say something and take her daughter home, but she really didn’t want to.

When with an exaggerated sigh, Martin quirked a questioning eyebrow at her, she nodded imperceptibly, and held as still as possible, head held though her eyes flittered everywhere but his face, as Martin placed a hand on her free elbow, closed the space between them, and placed a brief, small kiss on her cheek.

It was ridiculously swift, yet Deborah felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs, as she would have sworn that it was only the child in her arms that stopped her from following Martin as he retreated to his side of the flight-deck, red cheeked and smiling nervously, and from pressing her lips against his, and not stopping.

In which case, she was in so much trouble.

“Now on the lips.” Verity’s voice was soft yet sharp in the otherwise silent flight-deck, and it was enough to add life back into the scene that had frozen around them.

Martin scoffed, though it sounded almost like he was choking, and he rocked back on his heels and he covered his mouth with a closed fist.

“Oi, Madam!” Deborah scolded lightly, tapping her daughter on the arm as she tried not to glance too pointedly at Martin, who watched, smile still present beneath his flaming cheeks, “You behave yourself.”

But Verity wasn’t listening; she had buried her face into Deborah’s shoulder, and was pretending to sleep, the same tactic that she used when she wanted to go home more quickly, but knew that her assigned adult didn’t have a valid excuse.

“Right…well, I’ll, uh-” Deborah turned back to Martin, and found her movements weren’t as lucid as usual.

“I’ll see you later in the week.” Martin concluded, unusually relaxed given that he should have been mortified and embarrassed by Verity’s demands; he simply pushed his hands into his pockets and ducked his head, allowing Deborah the opportunity to leave without stalling any further.

So leave she did, Verity murmuring some nonsense in her ear as they exited the plane. Four more days until she had to give her back to her father, Deborah thought as her feet hit the tarmac.

Those four days wouldn’t be half as good as this one had been.

Especially now that even with her child in her arms, Deborah couldn’t shake the image of Martin from her head, or stop running through her head the kiss to her cheek, imagining what she might have done if there had been no reason to hold herself back.

This was really, really bad.


	26. Ottery St Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning (for those of a nervous disposition), there is some swearing at one interval that's of a higher calibre than my usual.  
> Otherwise, enjoy

**Ottery St Mary**

The sun was shining, the flight was over by ten o’clock that morning, and Deborah was aware that she was stupidly excited for what she knew full well wasn’t as thrilling as she was building it up to be in her head.

Having hired Martin’s van business before, she was fully aware of what the job entailed, but there was something about the idea of the three of them going on a road trip to Devon that filled her with an anticipatory sense of joy. Perhaps it was the fact that Martin hadn’t been on the flight, or simply the opportunity to play as a van man for the day on his turf; whichever mentality her brain was utilising, Deborah was looking forward to the rest of the day far more than was reasonable.

When she drove parked the van up outside of the student house in Parkside Terrace, Martin was already sitting on his doorstep, wrapped in the basic jeans and t-shirt ensemble that he seemed to have assigned to menial labour. As she turned off the engine and clambered down from the driver’s side door, Martin hoisted himself to his feet, and Deborah noted with a flicker of concern that although he was wobbling slightly, there were no crutches or supports in sight.

“Hello, you.” Deborah greeted him warmly as he hobbled to meet her at the van’s flank, coming to stop with less than a foot of space between them; she couldn’t help but brush the knuckle of her finger affectionately past the open collar on Martin’s shirt as she smiled up at him, “Are you sure you should be up and about?”

“Yeah, I’m fine; it just stings a bit when I walk.” Martin replied in a facsimile of mournfulness, biting the corner of his lip and ducking his head as he waggled the offending ankle; Deborah’s eyes followed his as he talked, and she hung on his words even as he glanced around the van, eyebrows dipping in the centre, “Where’s Arthur?”

“Oh,” Deborah startled back into alertness, and rocked back on her heels, passing the van keys from hand to hand as she shrugged nonchalantly; normally keys went straight into her right pocket, but her house keys were there, so she had to keep them in her hands lest she forget them, “He’s driving my car here for me.”

“You’re letting Arthur drive your expensive sports car?” Martin hissed through his teeth, the corner of his lips tugging into his cheeks; he leant against the side of the van, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Deborah almost bridged the space between them to place a steadying hand on Martin’s arm when he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, barred by the pain caused by the one at an unnaturally stiff angle, but thought the better of it. Martin was petulant and proud, and wouldn’t appreciate her help for what it was.

“It’s necessary for my overarching plan.” Deborah replied wryly, folding her arms over her chest to prevent herself from giving in to the inappropriate impulse to touch the flesh of his lower arms that was left uncovered by his short sleeves, “When we come back, we can drop Arthur back at his house, and then I can drive home from here.”

“Wow!” Martin exclaimed sarcastically, eyes widening in mock surprise as she shook his head and relaxed into the van, the tension leaving his shoulders, “That must be the most forward thinking you’ve ever done.”

“Oh, shush, Martin!” Deborah drawled, giving in and swatting his about the elbow; she raised the other hand to briefly cover the bright smile that was dredged up by the light chuckle that escaped from her lungs, even as Martin laughed unabashedly, shifting to accommodate each  movement.

At that moment the familiar growl punctuated the air, and the two of them turned to see Deborah’s purple Lexus growing larger as it trundled down the street and pulled up behind Martin’s van; Arthur was obviously taking Deborah’s words of warning to heart, and driving as carefully as was humanly possible.

As Arthur locked the doors and wandered over to the van, Martin clapped his hands together and morphed into the strange concoction of extremely competent yet not quite Captain like authoritarianism that Deborah had come to associate with Van Man Martin.

“Alright chaps,” he addressed them, hobbling away from the van’s support so that he could stand apart like the giver of a magnificent speech addressing the masses; Arthur nodded and listened, rapt with attention, but Deborah merely listened half-heartedly as she fondly admired the stilted arcs that Martin’s limbs made and the serious set of his expression, “This is the plan: we drive to the Laurel’s, we load their piano, then we drive to Devon, unload the piano, and drive back. Nothing more, no detours, and definitely no reason for this to go wrong.”

“You make it sound as if you have no faith in us Martin.” Deborah drawled, quirking her eyebrows salaciously at him, grinning at the pointed pout that he sent her way as he took the few painful steps back to the van’s side, “Anyone would think that as a team we hadn’t overcome far greater problems than a simple van delivery.”

“Hmm, yes…” Martin replied, grimacing faintly and sidling up beside her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back just a little to be able to meet his cheerful gaze, “The thing is, having worked with you for as long as I have, there’s a part of me that’s suspecting everything will go horribly wrong.”

“Don’t worry Skip, everything will go brilliantly!” Arthur assured him, smiling encouragingly over his shoulder; but Martin didn’t turn, the only acknowledgement that Arthur had spoken a scoff of agreement, as Martin remained rested against the van, propped up on an arm as he raised an expectant eyebrow at Deborah, his cheeks flushing lightly as he smirked.

When no verbal reply came, Arthur apparently sighed in acceptance and reached up to yank open the van’s door; or Deborah though that was what he was doing. She only caught him opening the door from the corner of her eye, and paid him little heed, as she held Martin’s gaze and hummed deep in her throat.

“You’re forgetting Captain, that I have phenomenal luck.” Deborah drawled, rocking ever so slightly on her heels, aware that it brought her face just that inch closer to his; Martin’s eyes followed hers and the warm edge to his features never wavered, “That’s sure to balance out any mess that you cause until we reach a pleasant equilibrium.”

“You better hope so.” Martin retorted in a low tone of voice that sent shivers through the mass of moths that had claimed Deborah’s chest as their own; then he reached up to push the loose waves of hair behind her ear, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her cheeks, before stepping back and adopting his usual twitchy fluidity of movement, with a little more stumble than usual, “Come on, everyone in the van! Chop chop!”

Yes, today promised to be very interesting indeed; if only there weren’t so much actual ‘job’ to distract them.

oOoOoOo

So far the trip hadn’t been quite as much of a jolly road trip as Deborah had been expecting, but overall, she was in a rather good mood; that might have been helped by the fact that Martin was similarly jovial, and relaxed to the point of warm contentment that practically radiated from him, enough that she could bask in the rays.

The van was one in which the front contained a row of padded seats that could fit three people, four at a push (if said people were good friends), so it hadn’t been a problem piling inside and completing their pre driving to Devon check list.

While Deborah sat in the driver’s position, Martin had taken the space beside her, far nearer to the right of the van than the centre; he had one arm slung over the back of the extended seat, so that it rested behind Deborah’s head, and though she wasn’t sure whether that was intended, or simply comfortable, Deborah chose not to ask, merely enjoying having Martin’s full attention as he was turned slightly towards her for the entirety of the drive.

Once he had calmed down and stopped worrying about her skills as a driver, Martin seemed to enjoy himself as much as she was.

Arthur, for his part, had apparently grown bored or something similar, as he sat, head rested against the opposite door, staring out of the window, watching for more yellow cars Deborah assumed. A part of her had felt a pang of guilt for ignoring him for the most part, but that thought had been swept away in the flurry of pleasure that Martin’s gaze brought.

It was a little distracting, feeling the heat of his gaze flittering between her and the road, but Deborah couldn’t deny that she rather liked it; all the more reason to show off, as for once, her embellished words and showy behaviour seemed to be working.

“Okay: so as long as we average at least eleven miles an hour, we should get to Ottery St Mary by six.” Martin remarked thoughtfully; when Deborah snuck a glance at his face, it was to see him chewing on his bottom lip, gazing into the middle distance, still folded towards her as his fingers rapped distractedly on the back of the seat.

“Well, it’s a punishing pace but I think I’m up to it.” Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes and gripping the wheel. She batted her eyelashes and rolled her shoulders back, preening under Martin’s gaze as he smirked, letting out an imperceptible silent laugh, just a sharp exhale.

“Why’s it called that, then, Skip?” Arthur inquired, looking away from the window to peer at Martin; he had one arm bent and rested on the ridge below the pane, and the other draped across his lap. Deborah supposed that he was probably itching to be doing something active, but then again, she hadn’t been paying him enough attention to make an educated guess.

“What?” Martin replied, expression scrunching in confusion; at the sound of Arthur’s voice he jolted slightly, and turned in his seat, though his arm remained laid out behind her head, and Deborah could read the distraction in his posture. That alone sent another shiver of contentment through the space beneath her flesh.

“Ottery St Mary.” Arthur reiterated, waiting patiently for a response, face open and honest.

“I’ve no idea.” Martin replied dryly, raising his eyebrows and shrugging in a universal sign of ‘how should I know’, before shifting so that his back was once more turned ever so slightly away from their steward, glancing out at the road.

Even though Deborah recognised the gesture for what it was, and met Martin’s gaze again, smiling faintly, letting the gesture appear on his face as well, she couldn’t help but hear the little niggle in the back of her mind telling her that Arthur was sitting just a few feet away from them, and that as his friends, they really shouldn’t be neglecting him so. Again, the musing didn’t last long, as Deborah was paying far too much attention to the desire to lay her head back or shuffle forwards so that Martin could slip his arm down behind her, though she did neither.

“Do you know, Deborah?” Arthur continued to question them, now peering around Martin as if he weren’t there, addressing her directly; once again, Deborah inwardly cursed herself, as Arthur’s voice felt like an unexpected annoyance, even though she knew full well that he was there.

But then she changed her mind, and felt a surge of playfulness wash through her; she was still looking into Martin’s eyes (for far longer than she was looking at the road when her eyes flickered across), just as he was smiling wanly down at her, only an inch or two between them within the confines of the van, and a wonderful idea danced across her mind.

There was no reason that she couldn’t indulge Arthur while showing off just a little bit for Martin; if she was lucky, Martin would smirk and smile that wicked smile that he adopted when he was impressed, or laugh that lovely chuckle that he had.

At the very least he might relax a little further and keep himself wrapped where he was, curled imperceptibly towards her.

“Yes.” Deborah answered brightly, straightening her back and glancing briefly at Arthur, a jaunty smile on her lips; this promised to be a lot of fun.

“Do you?” Martin asked; his eyebrows leapt upwards in surprise, but he didn’t seem as if he didn’t believe her.

“Certainly I do.” Deborah drawled daringly, smirk turning into a grin as she gazed into Martin’s eyes; though she addressed Arthur, Deborah was speaking to Martin, watching his every reaction, “You see, St Mary is the patron saint of Devon and she, of course, was famously martyred by being eaten alive by otters.”

“Really?” Arthur exclaimed; Martin rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head, but he relaxed further, stretching his legs out and settling just a fraction more against her side, tracing her features as the shadow of a smile leeched onto his lips.

Every inch of her felt alight with triumph; Deborah couldn’t help but relish how fantastic it felt to have Martin look so fondly at her.

“Oh yes – rabid otters.” Deborah described in the dramatic tone of a fairy tale, forcing herself to look away from Martin lest she veer them from the road by accident; that didn’t make her any less aware of his attentiveness, “So she’s always portrayed in pictures absolutely covered in otters.”

“What, eating her?” Arthur asked, clearly oblivious to the fact that Deborah’s focus was anywhere but on him.

“Sometimes, in the more fire and brimstone churches.” Deborah continued, grinning and trying to balance the rush of bashfulness with the pride that she was feeling as Martin rubbed his curled fist over his mouth, probably to try and maintain his disapproval, “Elsewhere, the assumption is they’re all in heaven now and have made up, so they’re just shown milling about her, nuzzling her affectionately and offering her ottery kisses and gifts of haddock.”

“ _Deborah…”_ Martin sighed fondly; there was something in his voice that made Deborah’s cheeks prickle ever so slightly, and she glanced across the small space between them at the sensation of his arm shifting behind her head, to find that his eyes were filled with warmth and fixed firmly on her face, without any sign of sheepishness or shyness.

She highly doubted that he was going to look away either. So why not keep showing off, just to make sure that he didn’t.

“Why would the otters go to heaven if they ate a saint?” Arthur asked, spotting the small issue in her otherwise wonderful story; even though Deborah loved Arthur to bits, and she really did, in that moment, she couldn’t help but think of him like one of those dogs that specialised in demanding attention when the humans wanted nothing more than to lock it in the garden and bask in each other.

“You’ve put your finger, Arthur, as is so often your way, on the crux of a thorny theological problem.” Deborah explained, pursing her lips and adjusting her hold on the steering wheel as she thought quickly, “So far, our best guess is simply that St Peter’s got a real soft spot for otters. He looks into those whiskery faces and goes … “You guys! I can’t stay mad at you!” and lets them into heaven.”

“So heaven is full of otters!” Arthur exclaimed, a wide smile of understanding stretching into his cheeks as he folded his arms and slumped back into the seat.

“More than you can possibly imagine.” Deborah drawled dramatically, tilting her head back to trace her eyes along the loose set of Martins’ jaw, sharing a conspiratorial look; he smirked and shifted again, but had stopped shaking his head as he ought to do as the responsible Captain that he was.

“So, in your case, Arthur, probably be about twelve.” Martin remarked, quirking his eyebrows, but not even bothering to turn to face Arthur as he addressed him; instead widening his eyes imperceptibly, pointedly.

Deborah had to swallow hard and yank her gaze away from his, tensing her hands against the steering wheel; there was no doubt that Martin was playing now, showing off for her sake, and it made her want to leap on him, regardless of her better judgement. Only Arthur’s presence, and a slither of self-preservation stopped her from doing so.

“Hey, I can imagine loads of otters!” Arthur retorted indignantly; Martin spared him a sideways glance, and shifted so that he wasn’t quite as directed at her, but simply watched, wearing an open expression. And Deborah was willing to provide.

“Really?” she inquired wryly, pursing her leaning forwards to inspect the decisive set of Arthur’s face as he glared demurely back at her, “How many?”

“A million!” Arthur insisted, nodding emphatically at the disbelieving cock of Martin’s head.

“You see, I don’t think you can.” Deborah replied, wincing falsely and shrugging helplessly as she glanced away from the road, tapping her fingers fleetingly against the top of the wheel; this was more like it, the usual back and forth of the flight-deck, “I don’t think anyone can.”

“I can.” Arthur argued; he tipped his head back and thinned his lips determinedly, pressing his hands together, “I’m doing it now!...Wow!”

“No, you’re just imagining a lot of otters and then saying that’s a million.” Deborah laughed, turning the wheel to slip into the next lane, “I don’t think anyone can actually genuinely imagine more than about twenty otters at a time.”

“Oh, come on.” Martin remarked, tugging at her far shoulder with the tip of his fingers to get her attention, before resting his hand back with it had lain, only an inch away, “I mean, I can definitely imagine a hundred otters.”

“Mmm, me too,” Arthur interjected, slumping and staring out of the window, “yellow car.”

Deborah hummed her acknowledgement, but otherwise ignored him, instead formulating how best to challenge Martin; he may not have been gazing down at her any more, but they always got on best when competing. It incited a different kind of heat between them; not the glowing, lingering warmth that came with proximity and affection, making it hard to _look_ away, but bursts that ignited, making it hard to _move_ away.

Turning it into a game just made the daunting truth easier to swallow.

“All right. How much space do they take up?” Deborah asked, opening her palm up and offering the question out; Martin made the thoughtful noise that always made her think of a computer buffering, so she took pity, giving him a little nudge, “Could you, for instance, get a hundred otters on board GERTI?”

Martin was quick to allocate the imaginary otters places to stay, and verily dominated the conversation, apparently forgetting (or knowing otherwise) that the challenge was meant to be for Arthur’s entertainment. Deborah couldn’t say she minded, as it meant that Martin became engaged entirely in her, verifying every decision with her before he made it; he became so engrossed that his arm slipped from the back of the seat to drape around her shoulders.

“Er, four on the floor, two on the worktops?” Martin suggested, tapping his lips with the ends of his unoccupied fingers, his expression pinching in thought, “Well, it depends – are we carrying Carolyn and Arthur?”

“To wait on the otters?” Deborah inquired sardonically, raising an eyebrow, and beaming when Martin rolled his eyes in defeat; he was lovely when being so typically Martin, “I think that would be an indulgence, frankly. I think we’d be better off replacing them with more otters.”

“Might be better off replacing Arthur with an otter anyway!” Martin murmured, dipping his head down to talk into her ear; she fought a shiver at the motion, as his lips were barely away from her skin. He was definitely doing it on purpose now.

“Hey!” Arthur exclaimed indignantly; Martin sat back and ran a hand sheepishly through his hair, while Deborah frowned apologetically. Perhaps that might have been a tad cruel. Best to move on swiftly.

“So, thirty-two in the seats, sixteen in the overhead lockers, sixteen under the seats, six in the galley …” Deborah recapped, making sure to glance between both men when she had the chance to look away from the road.

“… fifteen in the hold?” Martin suggested brightly.

“Oh, twenty easily; and six or seven in the aisle.” Deborah added, already feeling quite proud of herself; it occurred to her that perhaps she had lost sight of the point of this particular venture, but nevertheless, she had become quite invested in this particular game.

“Call it seven.” Martin remarked, shrugging nonchalantly; Deborah could have kissed him for how seriously he was taking something that she had pulled from her head.

“That’s, what, ninety-seven; and three in the flight deck. A hundred!” Deborah declared proudly, patting the top of the thrumming steering wheel in victory and glancing over her shoulder to take in Martin’s indulgent smile as Arthur announced that she was ‘Brilliant!’

Except Martin was no longer surveying her, but had straightened up (though his arm stayed where it was) and his lips were pursed as he squared his jaw and peered ever so slightly more down his nose; Deborah could have identified that look from five miles away.

“No.” Martin said decisively, raising one hand into the air and shaking his head, “Not in the flight deck.”

“Hypothetically, though …” Deborah insisted tentatively, smiling in bewilderment at him, hoping detachedly that he might see the enticingly open look on her face and come around to her way of thinking, or more importantly, laugh along with her.

“I don’t care how hypothetical it is, I’m not flying with a live otter in the flight deck.” Martin insisted, shaking his head even more vehemently, and adopting his Captain voice, as if that ever actually worked on anyone.

“I don’t see why not.” Deborah retorted, “Historically, very few hijackings have been carried out by otters.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think the Civil Aviation Authority would be too keen on the idea.” Martin stressed emphatically, though for all his prim and prissy attitude, Deborah was sure that he was simply playing up the side of himself that he knew grated the most (but that she was also rather fond of).

So Deborah rolled her eyes as was expected, and settled back into the seat, letting her head rest against the arm that was still somewhat draped over her shoulders, and took her eyes from the road long enough to bat her eyes as Martin’s stoic demeanour.

“To be quite honest with you, Captain, I don’t think there’s a whole lot about this plane full of unsupervised otters the CAA is going to love.”

oOoOoOo

Deborah heaved herself to her feet just as the pub owner began checking over the piano; she had collapsed onto the patch of grass outside the pub the moment that Martin had hobbled over to meet the man, chest heaving as she tried to decide whether it constituted as a good or bad end to the day.

On the one hand, they had had some fun, and stolen the plane, and delivering the piano felt like an oasis after a trek through the desert. On the other hand, they had stolen the plane, and pushed the bloody instrument from the airport.

While Martin leaned against the side of the piano, watching the pub owner like a hawk, Arthur hooked an arm under Deborah’s elbow and hoisted her upright, earning a small grateful smile and a pat on the hand as he released her, just in time for the owner’s face to scrunch, and for him to reach across and close his hand around something that she couldn’t quite see.

“What are these doing on the keys?” he asked in his thick Devonshire accent, peering down at whatever he had found, then extending his hand for Martin to take a look. At Martin’s exasperated sigh, and the odd roll of his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and squared his jaw as if he were biting down on his tongue, Deborah’s interest was piqued.

“What?” Deborah inquired faintly, bringing her hands together and wandering to stand beside Martin at the piano, Arthur following on her heels.

The pub owner let the subject of their inspection dangle from his outstretch hand, and Deborah felt as if someone had taken the remote and switched off the usual humming that took place in her brain, replacing it with a solid blank at the sight of the van keys glinting in what little light was left of the evening.

Logically she understood exactly what that meant, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember such events taking place; wrapping her arms around her chest and placing one finger sheepishly against her lips, Deborah slowly lifted her eyes, and then dropped them again at the look on Martin’s face.

“Oh. Deborah.” Arthur breathed, shaking his head and looking down at her as one might a top grade student that had dismally failed their final exams; he was too kind hearted to lord it over her for more than about twenty minutes, but Deborah supposed that in light of how curt she had been with over the course of the day (which wasn’t entirely his fault), Arthur deserved these few moments to rip into her, “The van keys!”

“Ah yes.” Deborah noted, keeping her sights securely trained on the edge of the piano as Martin took the keys from the owner, who disappeared into his pub muttering something about a trolley; she knew when to bow out gracefully, and if she was honest, Deborah was still running every possible scenario through her head to try and identify when the keys could have possibly entered and then left her possession, “Well, that’s good.”

“You must have closed the lid on them, Deborah, when you finished playing to Mum.” Arthur continued; when she snuck a quick glance at his face, she discovered that Arthur seemed to be having some sort of epiphany, marred by the irritable exhaustion that their little trek had wrought upon even him.

And yet, the one thing that was making Deborah want to curl in on herself was the prickling sensation that she felt as she tried not to think about the fact that Martin was standing beside her, shaking his head with pursed lips and a deviously apologetic smirk on his face. All of her showing off had been for nothing. More than that, he was now getting to relish her fallibility from nice and up close; the only consolation was that he was enjoying it…just not the way she had intended.

“So it seems.” Deborah agreed, then in a last attempt at regaining her dignity and pushing the matter aside, perhaps to laugh at another day, “Still …”

“After Arthur gave them back to you.” Martin interjected pointedly, fanning the flames; Deborah glared at the smug curl of his features, and the lazy slouch against the piano.

Of course he couldn’t pass up a chance to tease her mercilessly; even better, he’d let Arthur return all the little sideways remarks over the day. And yet, even with that in mind, Deborah couldn’t help but he rather attracted to the daring competitiveness that Martin was demonstrating; there was no point denying it, even as she inwardly cursed herself, and him.

“Like I said I gave them back to you.” Arthur elaborated; if she hadn’t known any better she would have said that he was charging himself up, expanding with realisation.

“…Yes.” Deborah acknowledged, with a small nod, biting her lip and staring at the patch of grass beneath Arthur’s feet; her head was stiff buffering, and for all the sheepishness that she was undergoing, she still couldn’t remember doing anything. Which was rather the problem actually.

“Oh, Deborah!” Arthur said dramatically, and Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes and letting her head droop in acceptance, glancing momentarily to Martin, who was no help whatsoever, as he simply frowned unsympathetically, “You CLOT!”

While Martin chuckled beside her, Deborah inhaled deeply, and nodded, taking care to meet Arthur’s indignant glare.

“Thank you Arthur, an apt analysis, but I don’t remember _doing_ it.” Deborah excused herself, making sure to balance guilt with defensiveness; she turned back to Martin, and threw out her hand, waggling her fingers into her palm expectantly, “Give me the keys.”

Martin did as he was asked, and Deborah pointedly ignored him as she put her arms out, passed the keys from hand to hand, practically acted out her movements at the airfield; she could almost feel Martin repressing a snort, but that was eclipsed by the flash of memory, and the swan dive that her chest performed.

Letting out an extended groan, feeling her face flush hot, Deborah slammed her eyes shut, blocking out her colleagues’ smug faces as she covered her face with her closed fists; giving in to the temptation to curl in and implode, she allowed her upper half to bend slowly, then sprawl over the piano top, effectively burying her face.

“ _Oh_ , bloody buggering fucking hell!” Deborah groaned, her voice muffled by the limbs that she kept tightly wrapped around herself, even as she heard Martin’s laughter spike, and felt his hand pat companionably at her back, then rubbing small comforting circles; with one last inwardly aimed curse, Deborah straightened up, pushing her hair behind her shoulders and taking a deep breath, centring herself, meeting the men’s eyes, “­Bollocks…I’m _sorry_. I suppose I’m taking full responsibility for this then?”

“No, don’t worry,” Arthur shrugged, batting a hand through the air; his expression became forgiving in under a second, and it was only her current disdain for her own mottled memory that stopped her from doing much more than sighing, “I actually had a lot of fun.”

Deborah shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her chest; as much as she hated being teased, a part of her wished that he and Martin (who was still smirking to himself) would just get on with it and exhaust any self-irritation that she was feeling. She smiled wanly at Arthur, and then looked up to Martin, frowning pitiably.

Martin rolled his eyes, but smiled indulgently, pushing away from the piano, and hobbling until he could rest his weight on her, one arm over her shoulder.

“Come on,” he remarked, nodding instructively at Arthur, who obediently started walking, “Let’s go before Carolyn realises we stole her plane.”

Deborah smiled weakly in response, but started walking slowly, allowing Martin to bumble along beside her with the minimum of fuss; there was no doubt that she was going to suffer for her failure for weeks, but she had to admit, she was beginning to appreciate the fond sort of look that Martin would sometimes adopt when he was being teased. It was rather nice, like a little connection.

“I have to say Captain,” Deborah drawled, “I could never have imagined you taking part in such a devilish scheme.”

“Oh, are you impressed now?” Martin retorted sarcastically, increasing his grip as they started heading up the main road towards the airport; Arthur seemed to know where they were going, so it was acceptable to take their time.

“I’ve never loved you more.” She replied wryly, smirking when Martin tugged at her shoulders in retaliation, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as his cheeks flushed pink. It wasn’t much, but the natural order was being restored.

oOoOoOo

Martin was being stubborn again, but Deborah had to admit that under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t even be allowed to follow him up the stairs to his attic while keeping a hand in the air in case he topple backwards, let alone see inside the student house.

They had dropped Arthur back at his house and then vanished before Carolyn could come out to see the guilt scrawled across their faces. The atmosphere had relaxed somewhat on the flight and then drive home, and Deborah, still dejected and embarrassed, had allowed herself to stop showing off; being honest and letting Martin tease her seemed to make him happier anyway.

From the way that he had described it, Deborah had assumed that they would have to enter Martin’s abode via a ladder and hatch, but in actuality there was a set of stairs, and even a small hall area outside of the door to the attic, in which Martin slumped against the wall so that he could search for his keys.

“Oh dear Martin, are you having trouble finding your keys?” Deborah drawled playfully, pouting across at him and leaning against the opposite wall in the otherwise cramped hall, “I hear that’s rather a common affliction, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Hmmm, nope, you’re not getting out of it that easily.” Martin replied, shaking his head and biting his bottom lip, and retracting his hand from an inner pocket of the coat that he had taken from the back of the van when it had begun to rain a few hours prior, and jangling his keys in the air, “I think I’m going to give it a week before I stop reminding you.”

Deborah rolled her eyes, but followed Martin into his home once he had unlocked the door, and then stood back against it to wave her in, only grumbling the necessary amount, taking a moment to look around, inspecting the room while monitoring her expression lest Martin withdraw and ask her to leave. He was far too proud, and she was well aware that this was a sore spot.

“It’s not a lot,” Martin started as he hobbled to her side, hands coming together at his front as he blushed and is eyes skirted the room’s contents; Deborah cut him off with one quirk glare and a quirk of her eyebrow.

“It’s nice,” she corrected him, folding her arms across her chest to feel less like she was filling the room, “I like it.”

It _was_ nice, cosy; Deborah may have become used to slightly more grandeur, but she had grown up lower middle class at best, and spent seven years at private school, in a dormitory that could just about fit her and a bed, so it wasn’t difficult to admire the quaintness of Martin’s abode; especially as it was so evidently stamped with Martin’s personality.

The attic obviously spanned the entirety of the top floor, with plenty of light supplied by the window cut into the slant of the roof, and a hard wood floor that was clear of debris in a way that only Martin could manage. On one side a half-square counter curled around, intersected by an oven and other kitchen essentials, cupboards above them, and the other side appeared to be a cross between a sitting room and bedroom, with a bed and cabinet on one side against the wall, and a shelving unit and television aimed strategically towards it. Deborah assumed that the door at the other end led to some sort of bathroom, if the towel hanging over the door-handle was any indicator.

Deborah wandered further inside, ignoring Martin’s cautious tensing to cross the room and run her eyes over the various possessions that laid interspersed across various counters; the kitchen area was sloppily organised, but organised nonetheless, and the shelving unit was covered with carefully arranged model aeroplanes that he must have owned since he was a child, some meticulously painted, others coloured as if by a shaky six year old.

“Right, well, that’s good.” Martin replied, swallowing awkwardly; Deborah turned back to him and smiled thinly, waiting for him to finish, “Would you like a cup of tea, I can make tea.”

Martin was already hobbling to the counter, sticking the kettle under the tap, by the time Deborah could reply; musing lightly on the fluttering that happened in her chest at his bumbling, she followed him, leaning sideways against the counter beside him, close enough that his elbow brushed against her as she peered at his progress.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Deborah remarked gratefully, smirking as Martin nodded and reached into the cupboards above his head to find mugs, cocking her head to follow the path of his.

“Well, you deserve it for helping me out today.” Martin noted, placing the mugs down and turning to mirror her posture, leaning with his hands not quite in his pockets, and smiling against the awkward blush on his cheeks as he met her gaze, “You may have messed up, but I couldn’t have done it without you – you, know, I could kiss you for that.”

“Go on then.” Deborah shot back salaciously, smirking and batting her eyelashes; it was meant as a joke, to knock him off kilter, make his cheeks turn scarlet and his speech falter before he collected himself, and it didn’t fail.

Martin spluttered, and had to cough and clear his throat with a curled hand covering his mouth before he recovered, and his eyes darted between her mouth and her eyes; she was starting to wish that she hadn’t been joking.

“I – uh, um…that’s not – err, _no_ , that’s not what I ….” He stuttered, raising his hands defensively; then he paid attention to the smirk that curled Deborah’s lips, and his hands froze, lowering slightly as his eyebrows dropped suspiciously, and his lips twitched upwards as he peered across the infinitesimal space between them, “I um…I can’t tell whether you’re _joking_ or _daring_ …”

Heat surged in her chest, and Deborah unfolded her arms so that she could prop one against the counter, and push the other through her hair; she wetted her lips at the idea that stormed through her mind at the realisation that Martin was still very much a few inches from her, and not running away.

“I _was_ joking,” Deborah drawled, letting her voice drop to an airy octave, holding his gaze, “But now I’m _absolutely_ daring.”

“I-I-I-I - ” Martin’s eyes widened and his cheeks were flaming, his hand moving between the back of his neck and his hair, but he didn’t move away; Deborah smiled, feeling victorious as he couldn’t quite keep the smile from his face, despite his frantic assertions, and allowed her eyes to drop to his lips, “I – that’s inappropriate, and I-I…that’s not what I meant, and I-”

“Oh, I _see_ …” Deborah exclaimed wryly, leaning in a little further, reaching out to brush some imaginary fluff from his sleeve; Martin’s tongue darted out as he continued to fluster, “So…you’re either _really_ bad at it, or you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Martin retorted vehemently, regaining the haughty stature that came so easily to him when he was presenting himself aboard GERTI, but didn’t carry nearly as much gravitas as he seemed to think that it did, “And I’m not bad at kissing!”

“So you’re losing the dare by choice?” Deborah inquired; there was something thrillingly charming about how worked up Martin could get himself, while petering on the precipice of hilarity, and she didn’t quite want to stop pushing yet, “How very noble of you Martin, I really am impress-”

She didn’t get to finish as before she was truly aware of what was happening, Martin had surged forwards, stumbling slightly on his injury, and pressed his lips to hers, catching her by surprise; Deborah let out a little ‘oomph’ of shock, as Martin tilted his head, bringing her closer, and cupped his hands over her cheeks, and her own hands leapt up to land on his shoulders, not quite certain in their movements.

Deborah had been expecting a brief peck, if anything, so that Martin could prove himself, but this was making her head spin. The moths in her chest were aflame and whirring, and her mind was stuttering in a fashion worthy of Martin himself, and all that she could think of was Martin’s lips moving against hers, and his cheek brushing hers, and his hands, which were pushing into her hair.

Then Martin began to pull away, his hands retracting, and Deborah lurched forwards, pulling him back into the kiss, her chest heaving as her hands dragged up from his shoulders to wrap around them; the frantic need to get closer still wasn’t making sense, but it was definitely insistent.

Martin let out a shocked squeak, but the next moment his hands wrapped around her waist, and Deborah curled her arms around his shoulders as she was pulled against his chest. Deborah wasn’t sure how long it was, she lost track of time, but she could honestly say she didn’t care, as she kissed Martin for all that it was worth, lips never parting, but pressing firmly against his again and again, clinging to him, musing detachedly that this was so much better than one of his rare hugs.

Like a string on a violin snapping, Deborah broke away, eyes dropping down, drooping almost as she steadied her breathing, exhaling shakily against the thudding in her ears; Martin did the same, but he didn’t do more than lean back perhaps an inch, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as if nervous, even though his arms were settled loosely around her back.

“Well…” Deborah cleared her throat at the rasping edge to her voice, though she only spoke lowly, keeping her eyes on the dip of Martin’s neck rather than meeting his eyes, letting her hands slip back until they rested lightly on his shoulders; she was already beginning to feel the tremors of doubt creeping up the back of her neck, “That…I’d say you probably won that one.”

“Yes, yes I did.” Martin replied thickly, nodding slowly and gripping her a little tighter; then as if overcome with a change of heart, he stepped back, his hands lingering until her was a foot away, and he ducked his head, shaking it and rubbing a hand over his frown as Deborah watched his movements in dreadful, completely expected dawning, “I uh…I’m sorry, that was inappropriate, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, no, don’t apologise,”  Deborah assured him breathily, wafting her hand through the air and failing to smile weakly as she watched Martin shove his hands in his pockets and rock unsteadily on his heels, “I wouldn’t have dared you if I minded, and I didn’t…mind…”

“No, it didn’t seem like you did.” Martin murmured, scoffing minutely at his own words; his gaze passed over her briefly, but immediately after he was staring at the corner of his counter again.

Deborah swallowed hard, steadying herself and regaining a grip on where she was; even though a part of her wanted to just fall into him, the fluttering warmth that usually accompanied such thoughts was absent, replaced by a cold welling about her throat. It was time to walk away, before things became strained and irreversible.

“Right….well…it’s getting late.” Deborah remarked, putting on a forced smile that felt stiff even to her, and swinging her arms together when Martin lifted his head to blush and make eye contact, “I should probably go home now…”

“Yes!” Martin replied abruptly, then he cut himself of when he saw whatever face Deborah must have made; she wasn’t sure what, she was far too busy blinking and nodding in muted acceptance, “I mean – if you want, then…that’s probably a good idea.”

Deborah hummed under her breath, and nodded swiftly as Martin did the same. Without another word she strode away from the counter and past him, keeping her sights set ahead of her. Then, just a few feet between Martin and the door, she stopped.

There was no use denying that she wanted Martin more than anything in that moment, and the only thing that pushed her to behave rationally was the knowledge that he was the best friend she had, and not embarrassing him, or ruining what they had for the sake of desire, was her utmost priority…but…

Turning back to glance over her shoulder, Deborah couldn’t help but take in the sagged droop of his shoulders, or the dejected frown that framed his disappointed expression as Martin scuffed at the floor with his good foot, and pointedly refused to watch her leave.

Then again, as far as Martin was concerned Deborah Richardson was reckless and a risk taker…so why should she hold back for the sake of trepidation or internal conflict.

“Or I could stay a bit longer.” Deborah suggested, turning slowly on her heel to gaze as openly as possible at Martin, letting her arms hang at her front and her fingers intertwine; Martin’s eyebrows rose imperceptibly, and his lips parted in a silent question, “Or…a lot longer…if you wanted.”

Martin’s mouth opened into an ‘oh’, and he wetted his lips, flushing, but remaining mostly nonchalant as his eyes widened, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, while he stared intensely at first her face, only for his gaze to flicker downwards, and back up again.

Deborah knew that Martin understand completely what she meant, and now that the offer was out there, straightforward and tangible…she didn’t quite feel confident, but more secure in knowing that for once they were on the same page.

“You could…if you wanted to.” Martin answered, and Deborah felt something skip in her chest; she couldn’t quite believe that he was looking at her the way that he was, but she rather liked it, “I mean – I’d, um…I’d be okay with that.”

“Okay.” Deborah replied softly, pursing her lips and rocking on her heels, feeling her cheeks heat just a little; Martin’s looked down at the floor, and his face lit up as he smiled shyly, letting out a truncated laugh.

Slowly, Deborah tread back to Martin’s side, and left a small gap between them; it was incredible how nerve-wracking being near to him was now, when on a normal day they could sit barely a foot from each other for hours on end.

His smile growing ever warmer, Martin lifted his hand and brushed the back of his knuckles against the curve between her neck and shoulder; the set of his jaw only just masked the shaking of the same feature. Turning her head into the movement, Deborah stepped into the gap; as he shifted to place his hands on her waist and pulled her imperceptibly closer, Deborah rested her hands above his chest and met his gaze, inhaling slowly and sucking up her confidence.

Martin cleared his throat and bumbled awkwardly, his eyes flitting across her face, and he didn’t seem quite sure what he was going to do, as he ducked his head as if to brush his nose against hers, or rest their foreheads together, but didn’t quite achieve either. Deborah couldn’t stop a rush of affection from triggering a low giggle and a smile that she could feel crinkling her features; ideally, she would have liked to just be kissing him again, but this was enough to remind her of exactly why Martin entranced her like he did.

And then he stomach flipped, and Deborah remembered how Martin entranced her as he did, and it wasn’t because he really _was_ a very good kisser; even now she wasn’t a hundred per cent sure of how she felt about him, only certain that she really did _feel_ for him, very much so. The niggling in the back of her head began to rebel against the lurching desire to just carry on and make the most of the evening.

Apparently Martin was experiencing the same mental crisis. For a moment, Deborah thought that he was going to kiss her again, but when there was barely a breath of air between them, he froze, and he squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at something she could only guess at.

“Deborah, this isn’t a good idea.” Martin muttered mournfully; Deborah leaned back slightly and inspected his face in muted surprise, completely understanding what he was saying, and why, and yet unable to comprehend it, as she was practically buzzing and deaf to everything that wasn’t shifting under her hands.

“It’s possible that you’re right.” Deborah sighed, frowning as her good mood washed away as quickly as the tide; Martin’s eyes opened, and she found it was easier to try and count his eyelashes than meet the serious glint, so she picked at the fabric at his shoulder, “But would you mind elaborating?”

“I mean – this may feel like a good idea _now_ ,” Martin explained; his hands drifted up to run through her hair, pushing it behind her ears but lingering to stroke at her cheeks with his thumbs; the tenderness of the gesture kept Deborah quiet, “and believe, it _really_ does, but tomorrow, I’m absolutely certain that we’ll regret it.”

Deborah sighed, and looked away; he was right, of course, that falling into bed together wasn’t the brightest thing that they could do, but she still had to swallow down a surge of disappointment. After all the time she spent watching Martin, it would be nice to be allowed to indulge and forget being unhappy for a little while.

“Just, just let me explain.” Martin insisted, as Deborah stepped back and out of his arms; his fingers curled around her wrists just above her hands, and he gazed imploringly into her eyes, “I’m not going to deny that you’re attractive enough that I would very much like to have sex with you – but we’re tired, and frustrated, it’s been a long day and we’re all…charged up from kissing…this isn’t a rational decision on either of our parts, and putting aside that it would be completely unprofessional from a colleague perspective-”

“Look, Martin, I understand, I really do.” Deborah interrupted, raising her hands in surrender, even as Martin’s followed, still linked to hers, “I agree, this was a silly idea.”

“Good, but please, just let me get all my words out, because I really don’t want you to leave on a different page from me!” Martin said firmly; Deborah knew full well that he was unstoppable when on a roll, so nodded, quirking her eyebrows sardonically and lowering her hands, “Okay, thank you,” he sighed, then squared his jaw, “My point is – falling into bed together may be absolutely fine for strangers, because then they can just separate sex from feelings…but we can’t do that. You’re my best friend, and even though I would very willingly sleep with you if I didn’t know you so well, _now_ , it’s not a good idea, because even if they were just friendly feelings, they’d still get all confused with the sex feelings, and then I wouldn’t be able to separate them out, and I don’t think you would either-”

“And all of my sexual encounters have ended in long term relationships, marriages, or a child.” Deborah concluded wryly, rolling her eyes at the hard truths that were being delivered; Martin was utterly correct.

With all the thoughts rushing through her head twenty four hours a day, and the conflicting, confusing sensations soaring through her chest when near him, there was no way that they could indulge whatever tension existed between them without it developing into something else. She didn’t even know if she wanted something else.

Which meant that the rational, reasonable thing to do was to continue to exist in a state of temporal discontent.

“Exactly!” Martin agreed; he closed the gap between them, swinging his arms slightly in his joy at being understood, “As much as I care, and as much as I feel for you, and I really, really do – if we were do anything now, it wouldn’t just stay _now_ , and we’re not-”

“There. We’re not there.” Deborah finished for him, pursing her lips and Martin nodded apologetically, and bit at the corner of his lips as he frowned; the excitement that had managed to linger throughout the whole day finally faded entirely, and Deborah just felt tired, “Our friendship’s on eggshells as it is, and there’s no way that we could turn it into any kind of romantic relationship, which we would definitely feel compelled to if we gave in to basic attraction.”

“S-so you understand?” Martin asked, taking great pains to meet her eyes, though Deborah pointedly kept them trained just past his arm as she inhaled sharply; if she didn’t know better, she’d have said that she could feel her eyes prickling, and that alone made her hate herself for opening up as she had.

“Yes, Martin, I understand.” Deborah snapped, regretting how harsh it sounded as Martin dropped her wrists immediately, and rubbed his hands together, glancing around the kitchen area; a shard of guilt interrupted the washing of dejection, and Deborah reached out to take Martin’s hands again, but decided at the last minute to take the sleeves of the coat that he was still wearing between her fingers instead, pleased to see that that got his attention, “How about this?...how about we move on?”

“Oh, yes of course,” Martin replied hastily, his cheeks managing to get just the little bit redder, “Let’s just forget this ever happened.”

“No, let’s not forget about it.” Deborah retorted, then she sighed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to regain her usual integrity, “I don’t want to forget about it, no. Let’s remember, but put it behind us, learn from our mistakes, and move on as better people.”

“Oh…” Martin exclaimed on a breath; the tension left his limbs, and he looked as if peace had fallen in a previously rabid warzone, “Oh, well – yes, that would be…thank you.”

“No problem.” Deborah remarked, smiling wanly and taking a step back, releasing him and eyeing the sheepish blush that shimmered around his face, as his eyebrows danced up and down; eager to remove herself from the cloying atmosphere, a bit like a noxious cloud, unnoticed until too late, she clapped her hands together and said jauntily, “Well…I should go now, before things become very, very awkward between us.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Martin agreed quickly, he startled as if to push away from the counter, and hobble forwards; clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders professionally, “I’ll see you out.”

“Don’t be silly Martin.” Deborah scolded him lightly, stepping back from his reach and treading backwards towards the door, arms winding over her chest, “You sit down and put your feet up, and be fit and ready for work on Monday.”

“God, sorry, yes, you’re right!” Martin spluttered, flopping backwards against the counter, relief passing over his expression; Deborah relished in the return of the uncertainty and fluster, as Martin paused, biting on his bottom lip, and then looked up sharply, holding her gaze, “Goodbye Deborah…I’ll see you later.”

“Goodbye Martin.” Deborah replied fondly, allowing herself that at least.

With that she let herself out, and made her way hastily through the building, not wishing to pass any students that might witness the wavering emotions that she was sure were battling across her face and stature.

It wasn’t until she was sitting in her car that Deborah was able to place her hands over her eyes, and rest her forehead on the steering wheel. She should have been happy; nothing had been ruined between the two of them because of her reckless impulses.

But it felt like tears were welling up and never coming, and all that Deborah could focus on was the broiling in her guts. It was a good thing that nothing had happened, but she absolutely didn’t want to go home either.


	27. Rotterdam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start, I'd just like to say thanks for the response to the last chapter - it was lovely : )

**Rotterdam**

Life moved on. That was one truth that Deborah had learned never failed; no matter what happened, how many huge mistakes you made, or how long it took to recover, life would move on. It might not be better, and it might not be worse, but at least you wouldn’t be stuck in the same rut as before.

In hindsight, offering to fall into bed with Martin hadn’t been a good idea, and she was lucky that he was a decent enough man, and a perfect enough friend, to see that and do something about it. A month later and just as they had decided, they had moved on to brighter and better pastures, as fully functioning friends.

Although it might have troubled some people to know that there was a mutual attraction between them and their closest friend, Deborah had found that life actually became easier now that she didn’t have to pretend that she wasn’t admiring Martin from across the flight-deck, and knowing what Martin was thinking when his eyes lingered over her was immensely freeing.

It didn’t solve the other feelings, the churning in her guts, the moths that raged in her chest with proximity, the disappointment when she flew alone, or the myriad of times Martin would wander across her mind at odd times, but Deborah supposed that that couldn’t be helped; life went so much more smoothly when she wasn’t complicating it with her own emotional conflicts.

The morning after their embarrassing altercation, Deborah had gone back to Parkside Terrace around mid-afternoon, determined not to let the previous night get in the way of her being there for Martin as a friend; it had occurred to her around midnight, when she had been tossing and turning, that Martin could be up and about, and in far less pain, if someone kind were to fetch him an ankle support from the chemist.

Martin had been perfectly welcoming; he blushed and mumbled as much as he usually did, and rushed about to close cupboards and straighten rogue objects, but overall, he was far more relaxed about letting her into his home. Deborah had almost sighed then groaned in relief when she realised that everything was fine, and that they could very easily have a cup of coffee and then hunker down on his bed to finish watching the news channel that Martin had muted when she entered, with the minimum of fuss.

She may have caught Martin watching her tentatively out of the corner of his eyes, but that was only because Deborah was doing the same, just to make sure that he wasn’t regretting trying to function as normal around her.

Flights had even been better. That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t had fun before, but there was so much less tension between them; it was as if the strings had been cut and they could just enjoy themselves now that they knew exactly where they stood with each other.

Deborah couldn’t be sure, of course, but she even suspected that they had become more…physically comfortable. It seemed as if Martin no longer found any issue with brushing past her in the flight-deck by putting his hands on her shoulders and physically rotating her out of the way, and there had been quite a few times when Deborah had caught one of them leaning their weight against the other, brushing arms as they waited, leaning over the other’s shoulder at their desks.

All in all, the world was simply a far more pleasant place to be all of a sudden.

When Deborah slowed the car on the way into the airfield on one particular morning, it was overcast and damp, but what caught her attention was not the way that the corner of the grass that surrounded the car park and porta-cabin was leaking a puddle onto the tarmac, but rather the fact that the spot next to hers was bereft of its usual occupant. It was a strange and bewildering notion that she might have actually turned up for work _before_ Martin.

Though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone who asked (even though she was certain that Karl could see the entire airfield from his tower), Deborah paused once was out of her car to turn a little circuit on her heel, as if scanning the area with furrowed eyebrows might make a Captain appear. When that didn’t work, she simply shrugged her shoulders and made her way across to the porta-cabin; it wasn’t as if it was a _big_ loss, Deborah had just become accustomed to their routine.

To her surprise, Carolyn and Arthur were both already in the porta-cabin, going about their own business; well, Arthur was laying back on the sofa, an old video camera strapped to his hand and pressed to his eye as he aimed it at various points on the ceiling, and Carolyn was seated at Deborah’s desk, collecting documents from the printer.

Carolyn barely spared her a glance, but as Deborah hooked her coat over the stand, Arthur lurched around so that his feet hit the ground, and brought the camera around to focus on her, before letting his hands drop into his lap, smiling broadly, brimming with excitement.

“Deborah, guess what we’re doing today!” Arthur exclaimed by way of greeting, as Deborah wandered towards her desk, coming to a stop by the sofa that she had forced Martin to drag across the room to sit beside it only a week ago; it had been too far of a walk between procrastinating vertically and procrastinating horizontally, “You’re going to love it!”

Deborah pursed her lips and nodded sagely, taking another covert glance at the camera in his hand, and then at Carolyn’s preoccupied expression that hadn’t shifted at the declaration, instead of voicing her concerns; as always with Arthur, what excited him could be great, or spell doom for those around him.

“Tell you what, Arthur,” Deborah compromised, pulling her arms across her chest and smiling wanly, “Give me a minute, then instead of guessing, you can just tell me seeing as you’re so thrilled by the idea of whatever it is.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Arthur agreed, nodding in acceptance; he didn’t wait for her to reply, but merely slouched back into the sofa and restarted his fiddling, making little humming noises under his breath, as Deborah supposed that he was testing the zoom function.

Leaving him to it, Deborah rounded her desk, coming to a stop just beside her chair, which was still very much occupied as Carolyn scratched one of her pens over the documents that she had printed off; as Deborah squinted down, trying not to seem too interested, she had to quash her confusion, as they didn’t look at all professional. In fact, it looked as if Carolyn had typed them up on a word processor.

“I would congratulate you for making it into work almost on time,” Carolyn remarked dryly, finally sitting back, banging the paper against the desk like a pack of cards after a deal, and raising a quaint eyebrow as she met Deborah’s gaze; a smarmy glint danced across her eyes, and Deborah knew before she spoke further that she should prepare herself for a sigh and an eye roll, “but I don’t think that was for _my_ sake, now was it.”

“Hmmm,” Deborah replied, rolling her eyes and released a sigh filled with well-practiced exasperation, as she tapped her fingers against the elbow that they were wrapped around, “Where _is_ Martin?”

“He phoned me last night to ask if he could have a few hours to lie in this morning,” Carolyn explained, pursing her lips and shaking her head as if it were the height of indignity; with only the barest amount of huffing that was required in someone of her age, Carolyn hoisted herself to her feet, and used the paper that she had rolled between her hands to gesture pointedly at Deborah’s chest, as if it were her fault that their Captain was absent, “he said it was because he had a late van job. I only let him because we’re not actually flying today.”

“Oh, of course,” Deborah exhaled, nodding and stepping back to allow Carolyn to leave the cramped space between their conjoined desks; Martin had mentioned the previous night, when she had texted him to find out how the job in question was going, that it would probably stretch into the night; seeing the inquisitive pinch that Carolyn’s face took on as she turned back, it occurred to Deborah that perhaps it was best not to let Carolyn have that little piece of ammunition, and to move the conversation onwards, “So, what _are_ we doing today?”

“Well-” Carolyn started, but Deborah but her off, placing a hand flat in the air between them and shaking her head, raising her eyebrows sternly as she ignored the offended snort that her employer released.

“No, Carolyn, I promised Arthur that _he_ could tell me.” Deborah said decidedly, strolling back towards the sofa and dropping into the space that was left as Arthur hastily withdrew his legs from their perch; drawing herself up until she was poised and smiling indulgently, Deborah placed her hands together over her lap and asked over Carolyn’s huff, “So, Arthur – what are we doing today that you think I’m going to _love_?”

“You _are_ going to love it!” Arthur insisted, straightening his back and hunching forwards to meet her; the smile on his face was charged with anticipation rather than his usual contented adornment, “Today…” he sucked in a breath, Deborah assumed for suspense, although it only served to make her nod encouragingly, biting her tongue, “We’re filming a video!”

“Well, that explains the camera.” Deborah drawled, mostly to prolong the time that she had to process the new information; considering how often Carolyn bothered them about wasting time, this seemed to fall straight into that category, “Dare I ask what said video is in aid of?”

She turned to Carolyn at this point, blinking curiously up at the woman, who was standing, tapping her rolled paper against the other arm.

“It is in aid of company advertisement.” Carolyn explained, in a tone of voice that made it very clear _exactly_ what she thought of the farcical idea; Deborah didn’t quite share in her disdain just yet, “For the sake of making MJN more professional, Mr Alyakhin has asked that we at least have a welcome message and a safety demonstration ready to show his clients, as if they were all too dense to understand a three dimensional person.”

Deborah held back a chuckle, ducking her head briefly and raising her hand to cover her lips, so that she had time to restrain the small smirk that would only get her in trouble on a day that now sounded like far too much fun to be excluded from; just the idea of them trying to act was hilarious…and intriguing.

“So who have you elected to star in this motion picture?” Deborah inquired, feigning nonchalance, darting her arm out to balance herself as Arthur shifted beside her to perch on the edge of the sofa, making her tip sideways.

It wouldn’t do to sound too excited; Carolyn might refuse to let her take part just to annoy her. She had done so before. Such a feat was difficult, and Deborah had to make sure her hands were carefully positioned so that they couldn’t be seen curling, though she was sure that her eyes were bright enough to give away her inner musings.

Deborah wanted to act; given the chance, she would be the _star_ , even if it was just a tacky video that would be played at the start of the occasional flight. She loved acting; more than that, she loved being able to dazzle with her highly honed skills and show off in front of a camera. Amateur dramatics at school had been enough to satiate her enthusiasm, but Deborah had had to give that up to make way for the more academic subjects required to gain entrance to medical school. One last hurrah would be fantastic.

“Well, as CEO of MJN, and head stewardess, _I_ will be addressing the customers.” Carolyn replied dryly, quirking her eyebrow and holding Deborah’s gaze, as if daring her to speak otherwise; Deborah merely shrugged and nodded in acceptance, pouting her lips distractedly.

“And I’m going to help with the demonstrations in the safety section.” Arthur added, passing the camera from hand to hand and leaning his elbows on his knees, “You’re going to do the filming, because Mum says you’ve got the steadiest hands.”

“Far steadier than Arthur’s at any rate.” Carolyn muttered, eyeing the camera as it passed clumsily through the air; Deborah extended her hand to place her hand over Arthur’s effectively halting the inevitable path of doom.

“I am a ready and willing director.” Deborah drawled, smirking and waggling her palm until she felt the hard plastic of the camera land securely in her hand; Carolyn rolled her eyes, but sighed nonetheless.

“Cameraman, not director.” Carolyn corrected, but she turned her attention to Arthur, holding out the rolled paper for him to take and setting her chin as sternly as possible, “Here, Arthur, is your script. Take it, learn it, do not add your own words to it.”

“Will do.” Arthur chirped, taking the script and opening it in his hands; it was evident, Deborah thought as she peered across to inspect once again the words written on the page, that Arthur would do anything but what he had just been asked.

Tutting as she went, Carolyn let her hands fall to her sides, palms open to the world as if she were praying for peace, or a quick smiting if nothing else, and strode back to Deborah’s desk, lowering herself into the rolling chair and leaning forwards to begin flicking through the files that had been left haphazardly across its top.

Deborah took that to mean that _she_ wouldn’t be doing any real work for the time being; she had even been good the last week, making sure to remind Martin to do all of the mathematical and accounting related documents for her, so there was nothing that Carolyn could find to make her fill out.

As the other two became engrossed in their own areas (to as much of an extent as Arthur could become engrossed in rote learning) looked down at the camera in her hands as an excuse to think without interruption, twisting dials to seem as if she were experimenting.

Deborah wasn’t disappointed; Carolyn would realise that she didn’t possess the natural disposition towards theatrics, and Arthur was obviously inappropriate for the more serious acting. When that happened, Deborah would be called upon to take the mantle and raise MJN to the heights that it deserved.

True, Martin would want to do it; she highly suspected that Martin might push her in front of a car if he thought it would gain the car’s approval, no matter how much he cared for her.

No…Deborah could wait, and when they were begging her to star in the video, she could make it seem like a chore and earn even more out of it. She briefly considered that she should probably have felt guilty, but it was a victimless crime, and Deborah deserved some reward after everything that she did for the company.

After a while, and still no sign of Martin, Deborah shot Arthur a sideways glance; he had slouched further back into the sofa, turning until his back was wedged in the crook between the arm and back, and was flicking the papers back and forth, staring into space.

“Did anything happen with that nice young woman from the library?” Deborah inquired, leaning back and folding one leg over the other, resting both hands over the camera in her lap, “I’ve been waiting on the edge of my seat for you to report back to me.”

“Oh, you mean Lily? Yeah, she is lovely.” Arthur answered swiftly, slipping back into alertness with ease, a dopey smile curling his lips and he ran one hand across the back of his neck and through his hair; Deborah thought that his response wasn’t quite as chipper as she had expected, but then again, the first buds of love made many people even more slow witted than usual, “I managed to get her to talk to me, and we’ve had coffee a few times – though I haven’t convinced her to have coffee outside of the library yet.”

“How were you having coffee inside the library?” Deborah asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion; the last she checked, Fitton’s library wasn’t catering to the hungry.

“She works there, so she’s got some in the staff room.” Arthur explained, as Deborah nodded and ‘oh-ed’ as appropriate; she had been right, she thought as he frowned slightly, “I haven’t asked her out properly yet, because I’m not sure if she’d want to.”

“I told you Arthur,” Carolyn interjected from across the room; Deborah quirked an eyebrow pointedly at her; she knew full well that Carolyn was always listening, “Either take the girl on a date, or walk away. This procrastinating is getting dull very quickly.”

“Do you not approve?” Deborah inquired before Arthur could defend himself, smirking at the demure stiffness in Carolyn’s posture.

“She hasn’t got a silly name, so I have no problem with this Lily.” Carolyn replied shortly, taking care to place the folder that she was rifling through (Martin’s folder, so she wouldn’t find anything there) down on the desk and roll the chair around so that she could address the sofa’s occupants more clearly, “It’s just a bit tiring when a mother thinks that her son has finally developed a taste for literature only to discover that he’s acquired a taste for something else entirely.”

“Oh, I _see_.” Deborah drawled, exhaling a silent scoff of laughter, “It’s nice to see you’ve got your priorities nice and straightened out.” Carolyn huffed at this, and rolled her eyes, but Deborah ignored this for the sake of turning back to Arthur, and meeting his gaze squarely, “Alright, listen close Arthur; I’m going to tell you exactly what you need to do.”

oOoOoOo

It turned out, that as much as Deborah wanted to act, she also rather enjoyed being in charge of the camera; there was something quite empowering about being able to raise and drop the camera when she chose, and to capture whatever she wanted for future reference.

She wouldn’t admit it, but Deborah was also reminded fleetingly of the way that children (herself included at one point) seemed to get a thrill from wielding ‘the camera’; in truth, it was just jolly good fun to hold it up to her face and watch the crew in the tiny little screen.

After fitting Carolyn into a lifejacket and having her run through the script, Deborah had had a laugh at her expense, and it had been quickly decided that Arthur would perform the safety demonstration; that was fine by her, she didn’t want to do that bit.

Now Carolyn was trying, and failing, to run through the welcome speech, and Deborah was managing to remain patient and instructive only because when Carolyn threw in the towel, she would be allowed to take her place.

Deborah had perched on Martin’s desk to get the perfect angle (and to save her feet from the inevitable ache if she had been made to stand throughout the many, many retakes), and she let her legs swing as she held her wrist loosely, camera curled in her fingers as she tilted her head to the side in boredom.

“As owner and manager of MJN Air …” Carolyn repeated, pressing her hands together as she stood in the centre of the porta-cabin and looked down the camera like the monarchic villain of a soap opera.

She was cut off by the creaking crack of the door as it put up a fight; Carolyn glared over her shoulder as Martin strode in, humming a cheerful tune under his breath that he ended when his eyes fell upon the odd gathering.

“Hello.” Martin called, raising his hand in a quick wave as he smiled brightly, straightening the lapels of his jacket as he entered; his pace slowed as he really absorbed what he was seeing.

Beaming through thinned lips, as a rush of unnecessary relief filled her pores, Deborah straightened from her slouched, and extended one eager arm towards Martin, waggling her fingers and silently nodding for him to join her as Carolyn continued.

“As owner and manager of MJN Air, my first priority is to ensure you have a comfortable and enjoyable flight.” Carolyn reeled of tartly, pointedly ignoring what was going on around her.

As Martin came without question to her side, he met Deborah’s outstretched hand with his own, affectionately tangling their fingers together, only releasing her when he was standing close enough that the back of her shoulder could have pressed against his chest had she leaned back; he didn’t seem to notice at all, doing it all subconsciously, even as Deborah inwardly noted the loss of sensation.

“Is it?!” Martin inquired in muted disbelief, sending Deborah a sideways glance, and a small smirk; Deborah had been careful up until that point not to mention how out of character their entire script was, for the sake of being allowed to act later, but if Martin wished to entertain, then she could only smile and duck her head so that Carolyn didn’t see, but he definitely could, “’Cos that hasn’t really been coming across. What’s going on?”

Deborah listened half-heartedly as Carolyn explained what was going on, to Martin’s growing amusement; she did love it when he was nothing but confident, and his wicked sense of humour could shine brightly. She did however feel that it was necessary to point out why Arthur was a risky choice for the demo.

“Arthur does have a rather free-form approach to his art.” Deborah remarked, rolling the camera between her hands and raising her eyebrows knowingly at Arthur, who true to form, was already expanding with what he probably thought was ingenuity.

“Ooh! We could do it like a disaster movie!” Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hands out into the air either side of him.

“… for instance.” Deborah concluded, extending her palm to gesture towards him, making sure to purse her lips innocently when she looked towards Carolyn, who was shaking her head, the fingers of one hand pressed lightly above her eyes.

Martin chuckled softly, but raised his hand to lower hers, gently pushing Deborah’s arm down at the elbow, bringing her back in line without a word; Deborah glanced over her shoulder to pout playfully, but he just smiled.

“Surely you should do that one, Carolyn.” He suggested, his hinting a little more than unsubtle, as he made a mess of nodding pointedly, trying to seem relaxed by resting one hand on Deborah’s shoulder; even so, Deborah rather liked it.

“No I should not.” Carolyn retorted, huffing through her nose and aggressively lifting her hands to adjust her outfit, pulling and pushing her and there to make it as symmetrical as possible.

“That was the original plan.” Deborah explained, turning to face Martin, until her legs brushed the top of his; she had his attention immediately, eyes on hers, and she couldn’t quite tell whether it was that or the hilarity of her explanation that made her smile so salaciously, “In fact, we did a trial run this morning, but watching it back, Carolyn was worried she looked rather ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” Martin glanced politely to Carolyn, but Deborah could hear as well as see the tugging at the corner of his lips and the crinkles either side of his eyes; it made her want to make him give up the restraint, to make him smile properly and appease the fluttering mess in her chest.

“Oh, she did – utterly ridiculous.” Deborah continued, lowering her voice as if she were speaking just for him, leaning into the pull created automatically by the arm over her shoulders; he leaned in as well, lessening the gap between them, “I didn’t say she wasn’t right to be worried.”

“Thank you, Deborah …” Carolyn sighed, but Deborah wasn’t listening; a smile crept onto Martin’s lips, and he tipped his head down and to the side, keeping his eyes on hers so that she could speak into his ear.

There was a particularly arresting moment when she was in a fully inflated yellow lifejacket, demonstrating how to use a whistle …” Deborah ploughed on, lowering her voice again and tracing the tips of her fingers over the v-shape below his collar, leaning up conspiratorially; this was magnificent fun.

At that Martin actually giggled, a low, rolling sound that made his face light up as he ducked even closer to counter the rise of his chest, and made Deborah light up with a sense of perfect success, as she wetted her lips. She would happily trade the world to hear him giggling like that on a daily basis.

“Thank you, Deborah.” Carolyn said more firmly, but again, she was ignored.

“She looked like a musical grapefruit.” Deborah murmured into Martin’s ear, glancing sheepishly towards Carolyn, but grinning nonetheless, laughing with him, just managing to stop herself from lurching forwards and leaning on him as he was on her, as Martin giggled again, louder and more insistent, his whole face beaming with humour.

And she had done that; it was absolutely worth Carolyn’s wrath.

“That will do!” Carolyn barked furiously; Deborah finally leaned back and raised an eyebrow at the woman, whose hands were bunched at her sides as her face seemed prepared to snarl at any moment.

“Carolyn, I really feel I ought to do the welcome message.” Martin appeased, calming himself efficiently and clearing his throat, patting down the wrinkles in his uniform, and gesturing widely towards himself, “I mean, after all, I am the captain. People want to hear from the captain. They find it reassuring.”

“Martin, when has anyone ever found you reassuring?” Carolyn demanded, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest in a way that only made her seem more intimidating than she already was.

“That’s not fair!” Martin retorted, and his good mood was gone just like that, his face scrunched into his defensive, proud default; Deborah frowned at Carolyn but said nothing, wrapping her arms loosely around her chest as the pleasant weight of Martins’ arm disappeared from around her shoulders.

“Look, I’m sorry, but this needs to be calm, relaxed and authoritative – none of which, I’m afraid, are qualities for which you are famous.” Carolyn tried a different angle, softening her harsh features; it fooled no one.

“Mind you, they’re terribly hard qualities to find.” Deborah pointed out; she had no intention of letting Martin do the welcome speech, as she and only she possessed those required attributes, but she found that she couldn’t not defend him. It wasn’t Martin’s fault that he was incompetent when it came to looking competent.

“I am calm!” Martin insisted in a squawk that was anything but calm, flattening his hands in the air around him as if he were balancing on an imaginary skateboard, “I’m very, very calm – and authoritative, and-and, er, the other one.” His expression crumbled, and his cheeks reddened with exertion as he looked imploringly down at Deborah, “What was the other one? I can do that as well, whatever it was.”

“Relaxed?” Deborah offered lightly, blinking up at Martin and smiling thinly; he wouldn’t appreciate a massive show of affection when he was like this, and it wouldn’t be normal for Deborah to be anything other than vastly entertained (which she was).

“Yes! I’m very relaxed!” Martin cried, practically sagging with relief, although he remained jittery, defending his own honour; as Deborah’s watched his hands flitter from his epaulets, to his lapels, to anywhere that they didn’t need to be, she couldn’t help but want to pat him on the head until he just went to sleep, like a badly behaved cat.

“All right. Give it your best shot.” Carolyn instructed indifferently, flinging a hand towards Deborah, as Martin froze and looked between them, startled into calm by confusion; Deborah obediently shifted back across the desk so that she could raise the camera to head height and point it at Martin’s paling cheeks.

“Er, what, now?” Martin stuttered, coming over bashful all of a sudden; this, Deborah thought, was exactly why _she_  would end up doing the welcome message.

“Practice run. Fade up on Captain Martin Crieff at the controls …” Carolyn announced, and Deborah couldn’t help but smirk at the little whimper that Martin gaze as she held the camera more firmly and raised her other hand in an ‘action’ motion, “He turns to the camera engagingly and says …”

“I’m not ready!” Martin spluttered, closing his eyes tightly as if that might protect him from panicking; Deborah sighed fondly, and lowered the camera into her lap.

“And blackout!” Carolyn remarked cheerfully, clapping her hands together as if to move on; but Martin wasn’t having any of that. If there was one thing that he could be relied upon to be, it was a stubborn bastard; Deborah wouldn’t have liked him so much if he wasn’t.

“What? No!” Martin groaned, opening his eyes again and glaring at Carolyn in distress as she continued to purse her lips wryly and shake her head.

“Thank you, Martin. We’ll let you know.” She said airily, waving her hand through the air and nodding pointedly at Deborah, who made no move to do whatever it was Carolyn was expecting; Martin wouldn’t forgive her if she did.

“No-no-no, wait-wait-wait! Okay.” Martin cleared his throat and took a deep breath, steadying himself, “I’m ready now.”

“Okay. Go.” Carolyn, pointed at Deborah, who lifted the camera back up to head height, and began filming; there was no reason not to, and she had a feeling that she might like to look back at this moment in years to come.

“Hello. Welcome to MJN Air.” Martin said calmly, bringing his hands together at his front as he turned to look engagingly at Deborah; unfortunately, the moment that his eyes fell to the camera lens, his calmness began to disintegrate, “M-m-my name is Captain Martin Crieff, though that doesn’t matter – it’s all very informal here. Just call me Martin …well, in the context of this video, anyway.”

At that point, as Martin wavered between anxious and demanding, Deborah lowered the camera back into her lap and bit back a smile as she watched him splutter himself into a corner; if it hadn’t been for the rush of affection somewhere near her chest, she supposed that she might have found it tease worthy, but as it was, it was simply rather funny.

“If you actually see me in person, it’s probably best you do call me Captain Crieff, or just Captain. It’s just protocol, I’m afraid, um, but if it was up to me you could call me … ‘Marty’.” Martin remarked brightly; his eyebrows pinched in the middle as Deborah coughed into the end of a laugh, and had to lift her free hand to cover her mouth, “No, no, actually, no, no, let’s not confuse things: definitely don’t ever call me ‘ _Marty_ ’. Right, so, to recap: hello. I am Captain Martin Captain … Captain Crieff, Crieff, I mean! Can we start again?”

“You old perfectionist, you.” Deborah gushed, her smile reaching into her cheeks and plucking up a glow as she laughed, batting a hand gently through the air at him; Martin’s lips trembled into a fleeting smile as he met her gaze, but it disappeared when Carolyn interjected.

And as much as she adored Martin on camera, and she really, really did, Deborah knew that he wouldn’t get any better. Although, to be fair, neither Carolyn nor Arthur would either, and when asked, Deborah flatly refused on the basis that she was cripplingly shy.

So all that was left was to watch and wait, and to try and get Martin to do some more acting whilst absolutely not convincing him that starring in the video was a good idea. Sometimes, Deborah mused, she wanted far too much.

oOoOoOo

Later that afternoon, Deborah had found Martin in the cabin, slouched in the window seat of Row A, practicing his name over and over again; of course, she had teased and drawled upon entrance, but there was no denying that she had stood at the door watching for far longer than was necessary, soaking it in with a small smile on her lips.

While Arthur rambled on to himself (he was very indignant about not being allowed the proper set and acting tools, almost as indignant as Martin was about not being allowed to act at all) and wandered up and down the aisle, Deborah had dropped down into the seat beside Martin’s to listen to his grievances.

“What’s a captain’s name?” she asked, genuinely having trouble seeing Martin’s logic, as was often the case; she folded one leg over the other and shifted so that she was turned more towards him, noting inwardly when he did the same, slumped enough that their heads were at the same height.

“Well, yours, for instance – big surprise!” Martin replied drearily, flinging a hand to his side of gesture lazily towards her; he put on a deep, cheerful voice, “This is Captain Deborah Richardson.” Then he switched back to his normal, croakier voice, which Deborah rather preferred, even though Martin’s eyebrows were dancing about his hairline as if he had made some point, “You see, it sounds much better.

“Hold on, hold on, I’ve heard that somewhere before.” Deborah interjected, raising her own hand to bat his away gently, and drawing herself up with a smirk; she put on the same ridiculous voice that he had, “Cashier number six please.”

Martin’s did crack a smile, as Deborah grinned at her success, but it was marred by exasperation as he ran a hand over his face and rolled his eyes up to meet hers, pouting pitiably; she supposed that that was a sign of trust, so not a complete failure.

“It does sound rather good though.” She noted, allowing herself to relax into the shoddy seat while Martin sighed dully and scrunched up his nose.

“Captain der-der-DER-der-der.” Martin drawled, pinching his face up and glaring into the distance in concentration, ignoring the eyebrow that was quirked decisively at him, “That’s what you need – not Captain der-der-DER…ff.”

“What about Marty?” Deborah suggested quietly, grinning when Martin scoffed and looked away in false agony, frowning pointedly at the small round window; he truly was wonderful when being teased.

“No, don’t ever, _ever_ call me Marty – Marty’s a _horrible_ name!” Martin insisted, turning back to glare heatedly at her, hunching over to place his hands over her wrists as if this were the most important thing he had ever told her, “I hate it – it’s not a good nickname, like…like… _Debbie_ , that’s a decent one!”

“Well I would hope so, I was Debbie for many years.” Deborah remarked, chuckling softly at the shift from desperation to inquisition that washed through Martin’s eyes, making his lips pout; she decided not to withhold the rest of her statement, just because she loved how he leaned in curiously, “I was Debbie as a child, then at school, then in medical school, even Harry used it. I only dropped it when I started flying so that-”

Deborah cut herself off and pursed her lips, breaking Martin’s gaze and staring sheepishly at the material on his knee.

“So that what?” Martin pushed suspiciously, and when she looked back to him, he was smirking slightly; what the hell.

“So that I had a more professional sounding name.” Deborah sighed, gritting her teeth and wetting her lips as Martin’s face split into something akin to joy, and he chuckled, a small sound that grew louder until it hit the air; once again, that was one more thing that he could tease her with. Fantastic.

“ _Oh_! Oh, that is perfect!” Martin exclaimed on a breath, giving her wrists a little squeeze, “You can never tease me for this, because you were _exactly_ the same.”

Deborah simply rolled her eyes and waited for him to continue gloating. But Martin’s expression had softened, and he was running his eyes over her face; he even reached up to brush a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, dragging his bottom lips through his teeth; Deborah felt awfully like she was being inspected, and it did strange things to her abdomen, especially now that she knew just what he saw when he looked at her.

“Debbie…” Martin let the word roll off of his tongue, as if testing it, then he shook his head, ignoring the way that her eyes narrowed, “No…I can’t think of you as anything other than a Deborah.”

“Well good.” Deborah replied wryly, inhaling sharply to deter the nerves that were all of a sudden present throughout her pores; there was something almost touching about his declaration, “Because I am one.”

oOoOoOo

It had taken a bit of ribbing, and a lot of flattery and batting of eyelashes, but Deborah had managed to convince Martin to let her see the video that he had prepared for Carolyn; of course, his willingness to concede may have had something to do with how distracted he was by being furious about Martin Davenport the fake pilot, but Deborah liked to think otherwise.

The two of them had taken refuge in the flight-deck, Martin hunkered down in his seat, feet threatening to rest petulantly on the control panel and only held back by his professionalism as he held one hand curled in front of his lips to hide the antsy frown, and Deborah with his phone held in both hands, leaning down over it to hear the words as she replayed the video again.

 _“Hi, guys. My name’s Martin Crieff, the captain, and I’m the guy in charge of flying you today. On behalf of the rest of the guys on my team and the guys back on the ground, let me give you guys one hell of a big MJN welcome -_ ”

“Oh, _darling_ , this is beautiful!” Deborah drawled, beaming at the tiny Martin on the screen, when turning to glance at the real Martin through the hair that fell around her face only earned a distracted wave of Martin’s hand as the bridge of his nose crinkled in irritation, “You definitely have to keep this.”

_“Hey, I know, guys – big yawn, eh? But you know what? It might just save your life. A-a-although, of course, an air accident is statistically - ”_

“Hmmm, whatever…” Martin muttered, nodding briefly, though Deborah suspected that he didn’t know what he had just agreed to; as Deborah sat back to lean against the back of her chair, his head turned abruptly, and he demanded, “How does she do it? How does Carolyn manage to search for _one day_ and find a better pilot than me?”

Deborah sighed, and reached across to place the phone on the console, turning in her seat so that she could address Martin properly, making sure to hold his gaze; as fond as his indignant rambling made her, after an hour of it, Deborah was having to breathe away the adjoining exasperation.

“Martin, he’s _not_ a pilot.” Deborah said sternly, “ _You_ are a pilot.”

Martin scoffed and carried on in the way that only people talking a different conversation than their partner can achieve.

“I bet if he spent the day on GERTI no one would mistake him for the First Officer,” Martin sneered frantically; he was still looking out of the front window, rapping his fingers distractedly around the ends of the arms of his seat, “They’d have no problem recognising Captain Davenport.”

“Martin, stop; I want you to listen very carefully because I’m not going to say it again.” Deborah instructed, placing her hands imploringly on the arm nearest to her and glaring patiently into his eyes; that, at least, was enough to make him pause, and actually meet her gaze, though he pouted slightly, “You may think that he looks and sounds like a pilot, but the truth of the matter is, he _isn’t_ one. You however, _are_ a pilot, and a decent one at that, even though you don’t think you look and sound like one.”

“But he - ” Martin started, eyes widening, but Deborah shook her head and cut him off.

“No buts – if being a pilot requires certain attributes that you don’t seem to think you have, then surely you’ve _exceeded_ expectations, hmm?” Deborah suggested, relishing a swell of relief as Martin seemed to actually process that information for a moment, his eyes dropping to thoughtfully trace where her hands lay on his arm, “And besides, I think you look rather dashing in your uniform.”

“Really?” Martin inquired, sounding pleasantly surprised; his cheeks flushed red, and he shuffled back in his seat, straightening his back and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth.

“Oh yes, far more interesting to look at than those cardboard cut-out Captains that you seem to aspire to.” Deborah elaborated, allowing herself to smile warmly now that it seemed his sulk was well and truly tackled.

Then the flight deck door swung open, and Arthur filled the gap.

“Hi, chaps!” Arthur greeted them, and then slowed in his cheer as he took in their arrangement, and the sudden shift back into petulance that Martin’s face performed, “Er, Mum says are you ready for the rehearsal?”

“No.” Martin replied sulkily, pulling gently away from Deborah as she retracted her hands, and shoving his arms around his chest, appearing the model grouch.

“Yes.” Deborah amended, quirking her eyebrows demonstratively at Arthur over the back of her seat, who ‘oh’-ed in understanding, and stepped fully into the flight-deck, poking his head back into the Galley to call out to Carolyn and Martin Davenport.

“How tall do you think he is?” Martin demanded, making Deborah startled as she settled back into her seat; she rolled her eyes and sighed, taking care to simply rest the side of her head against her seat as she swept her gaze over him; she thought that he could have been compared to Gollum in that moment, as he peered suspiciously around the edge of his seat towards the back of the flight-deck.

“Oh, Martin, I have no idea!” Deborah replied exhaustedly, focusing on trying not to frown or grimace at him; he wouldn’t appreciate that, “Six one, six two?”

“Yeah, perfect height – taller than most people but not weird tall.” Martin muttered, scrunching up his face in wistful distaste; the worst part was that he genuinely thought that Deborah wanted to listen and comfort him on such a ridiculous matter.

“You’ve really got to let this go, you know.” Deborah retorted vehemently, losing her cool for just a moment for the sake of broadcasting her desperate exasperation, stretching her palms out in the air between them as one might when tackling a badly behaved tiger.

But Martin didn’t let it go; the moment that Martin Davenport entered the flight-deck on Carolyn’s heels he became the unlucky victim of Martin’s creepy stalker quiz; giving up the will to talk him down, Deborah sat back and listened dejectedly. It almost reached the point where she was affectionately proud of just how ridiculously petulant and proud Martin could make himself seem; it took a certain amount of skill.

In the end, she decided to remove herself from the situation and allow it to disintegrate by itself; she would come back when she was allowed to star, and not a moment before.

“You can take my seat, Martin.” Deborah told Martin Davenport, smiling politely as his befuddled set of his jaw released, his shoulders sagged dramatically, carried on an exhale.

“What? No!” Carolyn exclaimed, before Deborah had even risen from her seat; Deborah carried on slipping from the front of the flight-deck, even as Martin Davenport froze and looked desperately between them, “No, you stay where you are, Deborah.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Deborah replied dryly, shaking her head and pursing her lips in a facsimile of apologetic grace as she sidled up beside Carolyn, “I am – as I believe I’ve mentioned before – terribly shy.”

“Oh, don’t be so childish.” Carolyn spat, face blanching with barely contained irritation as she glared agitatedly at her.

“I’m not being childish,” Deborah insisted petulantly, folding her arms roughly over her chest and standing her ground, pouting her lips without paying much heed, “but if I can’t go to the Grand Prix, I’m not being in the film!”

oOoOoOo

Deborah was in the film; if she could take anything good from the remainder of the day, it was that she was most assuredly the star of the film. Far more than she had ever really wanted to be. And to make matters worse, Herc was there to bask in her humiliation.

The five of them gathered in the cabin to watch the first edit on the small passenger television that was practically stapled to the centre of the ceiling; while Arthur fiddled up front with the dials on the device, Carolyn had decided to sit beside Herc in Row B, while Deborah and Martin reclaimed their spots across the aisle in Row A.

Deborah wanted to fold in on herself and disappear into some sort of pocket universe, or simply fall inside her own ribcage if that were easier; instead, she conceded to simply pulling her knees up to rest loosely by her chest and leaning into Martin’s side where he slouched contently at her side, already smiling in anticipation.

If she didn’t like that smile so much, she might have considered punching it from his lips; Martin wasn’t going to let her forget this until they day that they both died, as recompense for the video that she had taken the time to text to her own phone when he had first begun teasing her only an hour beforehand.

“All right. Everybody ready?” Carolyn asked, as Arthur turned back to the group and looked to his mother for confirmation; when met with no reply, Carolyn announced with a flourish of her wrist and a shark-like grin, “I hereby present MJN Air’s first – and, please God, last – major motion picture. Arthur, press ‘Play’.”

“Okay! Action!” Arthur declared, and then hastily scrambled down the aisle to drop into the row behind Deborah and Martin, leaning over the top to get a better view.

As the twinkly music that Carolyn had found for free on the internet began to play, and the screen panned over the control panel, Deborah kept her eyes down, pouting in a deliberate show of misery as her tiny double talked salaciously into the camera.

“ _And who better to take us through it than_ …” Carolyn’s tinny voice came through the speakers, and Deborah groaned before the next words were even spoken.

_“Hallo. I’m your steward, Debbie.”_

Carolyn, Martin, and Arthur cheered enthusiastically, and Deborah inwardly cursed each one of them, scowling up at Martin as his face lit up and he smirked widely down at her.

“Oh, God.” Deborah groaned, and with that she turned and buried her face in Martin’s shoulder, lifting her arm to cover what was left of her face while the tiny Deborah nattered on disdainfully; Martin automatically retracted his arm so that he could sling it around her waist, squeezing playfully as he chuckled, making his chest rumble underneath her elbow.

“You definitely have our full attention, I promise you that!” Martin giggled, sounding happier than he had in a very long time; Deborah turned her head just enough that she could peek through her fingers at him, just as he ducked his head down to beam at her, squeezing again, his thumb tracing little circles on her waist.

“You look great in my uniform, Deborah!” Arthur congratulated from behind her, though Deborah didn’t bother to acknowledge him, burrowing her face back into Martin’s shoulder to hide her face from the shame, “Even the hat!”

“Especially the hat!” Martin exclaimed, carried by another wave of giggles as he ducked his head down again to tell her into her ear; she couldn’t be sure, but she thought that he might have rested his cheek briefly atop her hair as he turned back to the television.

The jovial teasing continued, and Deborah tried to quash her murderous turned suicidal thoughts by remarking inwardly that the crew had never been this cheerful together, and that had to be a good thing; if only it didn’t take a Deborah sized punching bag to create such unity, she thought as she relaxed into Martin’s comfortable hold, turning her head so that her cheek rested on his shoulder and she could actually see Carolyn as she mocked her.

“What’s that fruit I’m thinking of” Carolyn asked the group, flapping her hand in the air as she tried to grasp at the right word; wish another surge of hateful resignation, Deborah supposed that she had walked straight into that one “– like a grapefruit, but even sillier and more yellow?!

“A melon!” Martin blurted, almost incoherent with laughter; Deborah pinched his chest in retaliation, scowling up at him, but Martin only responded with another squeeze that was far too little like a companionable tug, and far too much like a cuddle to be acceptable with the rest of the crew there.

Then again, Deborah mused as the rest of them dissolved into giggles, Herc eyeing them sideways, Martin was the king of enforced professionalism, so it couldn’t be conjuring up the same feelings in him as it was her.

“Beautifully done, don’t you agree, Herc?” Carolyn declared, turning to smile wickedly at him; Deborah had _known_ that she was just showing off.

“Oh, absolutely. Couldn’t have done it better myself” Herc drawled, hooking his hands together over his lap as he raised an eyebrow pointedly as Deborah from across the flight-deck; the smarmy bastard, “– and under no circumstances would have tried.”

“Yes, can we turn it off now?” Deborah snapped irritably, turning back to sit the right way in her seat, but not moving to allow Martin to take his arm back; in her defence, he made no move to uncurl his embrace.

“No, certainly not.” Carolyn retorted, nodding towards the screen, where tiny Deborah was scrabbling agitatedly with the fiddly toggles on the life jacket, in a way that no passenger would feel safe watching, “This is the best bit.”

_“There is also a light, and a whistle for attracting attention.”_

“ _Debbie, I don’t understand. How does the whistle work?”_ Carolyn’s tinny and stilted voice seemed to be mocking her even from the television.

As he counterpart blew the whistle, looking like she could all upon the dogs of hell and have them rip the spleens from whoever needed telling how to blow a whistle, Deborah groaned again, and dropped her head into her hands, folding once more into Martin’s side to escape from the momentous cheer that the rest of the crew released, exulting in their sadistic joy, even as Martin jostled her playfully.

Deborah decided then that they were all going to suffer in the next few days.


	28. St Petersburg

**St Petersburg**

Deborah gripped the edges of the arms of her seat until she could feel the tendons in her fingers trembling with the effort, and worked on steadying her juddering chest as she stared without quite seeing through GERTI’s front window, her mind blank and whirring ineptly as it produced a sort of electrical fuzzing in her ears.

Detachedly she thought ‘shock’, but to be honest, she was still far too frozen stiffly in shock to make a reasoned diagnosis; that, and too many things were filtering into her mental list of ‘things to do’ for her body to have any time to collapse into shock.

GERTI was still humming, but other than that she was eerily silent; Deborah mused ridiculously that it was typical of the plane to forgo the alarms when they actually probably needed them.

A slight thudding made her turn her head sharply towards the sound, startling, and Deborah let out a small sharp sigh at the sight of Martin’s hand grasping clumsily across the space between them; he was still looking straight ahead, other hand clinging to the controls, and his face was more blanched than she had ever seen it.

Without thinking, Deborah slipped her hand clumsily into his, and was brought somewhat back into awareness by the stinging pain in her ligaments as Martin squeezed her hand in a vice-like grip; no matter, it helped to feel him right there, a tangible thing to cling to as she looked back through the window.

They had overshot the runway just a little, and from the look of things (and the way the plane had thudded and lurched upon landing) the front wheels had skidded off the tarmac and onto the grass.

It could have been far worse; they may not have been in the air long, but that simply meant that they had climbed just high enough for a crash landing to be dangerous, but not high enough to have oodles of time to pull off emergency manoeuvres with any degree of confidence in their success.

So all in all, it could have been far worse.

“Oh _God!”_ Martin groaned, and Deborah turned back to him, letting herself fall back against her seat, forcing the tension to leave her shoulders as she held firmly onto his hand; she wasn’t entirely sure what to say as Martin closed his eyes and lifted his shaking free hand to press over the top of his face, knocking his hat backwards as he did, “We’re okay – are we okay? We didn’t just die and think we’re okay?”

Deborah shook her head, but at first no words came out as Martin lowered his hand and opened his eyes, pressing his hat back onto his head and turning to lay his eyes over her, tracing up and down with a restrained intensity as he shivered back into his seat; despite his trembling, a strange sort of calm had come over him, and his voice was low as if he were sluggish. That worried her more than anything.

“No, no, we’re alright.” Deborah answered, smiling weakly, unable to maintain the motion; instead she simply squeezed his hand some more, focusing on the feel of his palm against hers, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Martin replied hastily, nodding with his lips pressed tightly together; for once no sarcastic remarks took root in Deborah’s mind as she waited for him to mentally collect himself, “Yes, I’m fine…are _you_ alright?”

At this Martin squeezed her hand with a renewed intensity, turning his upper half fully in his seat; Deborah nodded silently, and Martin’s eyebrows narrowed, and he lifted their joined hands to brush the back of his knuckles against her cheek.

“Good – I’m good, we’re both good.” Deborah choked out, nodding hastily and exhaling raggedly; her head still wasn’t settling on one decent train of thought, but Martin’s relieved but still concerned expression brought to mind one thing of importance, “That was good…you did well, that was a good landing.”

“No - ” Martin scoffed, his face contorting into a sort of twisted laughing grimace before drooping as he pushed at his hat again, turning to stare out of the window, “It wasn’t, it was a mess - ”

“The alternative would have been a flaming wreck.” Deborah interrupted dryly; she rubbed her thumb over the protrusion on his finger as she tugged on his hand and brought his attention back onto her, “You did well…well done.”

Martin nodded, and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, but he seemed to understand; Deborah at least hoped that that was what the lightening around his eyes meant. She barely had enough energy left to spare for his mithering, even though she couldn’t take her eyes from him.

“Thanks…” Martin trailed off, and his cheeks tinged pink as he cleared his throat and closed his eyes again, slumping tentatively back into his seat, having regained the tension in his limbs once more.

Deborah sighed, and then inhaled raggedly, and sighed again, focusing on taking the shivering in her other limbs and pushing that energy into the hand that she refused to unwind from Martin’s. As she laid the side of her head against the back of her seat and gazed across the flight-deck at him, confident that he wouldn’t notice, Deborah was only able to pull out certain things from the rush of thoughts and emotions that were emerging like rabid wasps from the numbness.

 _God_ , she didn’t want to stop looking at him, all tucked up primly in his Captain’s uniform, pressed yet ruffled slightly from the rush when the alarms began blaring, his jaw set from stress just as it had been set before in determination; Deborah would have even traded this nervous calm for the spluttering and blushing of everyday. She just soaked it in, revelling in the sight that was just so beautiful after the fright that she was still almost trembling from.

She didn’t even want to think about what she would have done if they had botched the landing…if _anything_ had happened to him…Deborah couldn’t cling to his hand hard enough, wanted to lurch across the flight-deck and just wrap her arms around him, or bury herself in his chest and let him hold her, or…

The flight-deck door slammed open, and the both of them couldn’t turn quickly enough in their seats to see Carolyn freeze in the doorway before they heard her irritable huffed groan, gripping either side of the frame as she shook her head and scowled, cheeks sucked in as if she were holding back from tearing into them.

“Oh, I see that the correct procedure upon emergency landing is to sit in silence and let the cabin crew play pot luck on whether you’re dead or not.” Carolyn snapped, pointedly ignoring the fact that their hands were still joined between them, as Arthur appeared at her shoulder, “I didn’t notice that in the safety manual last time you forced us to review it Martin.”

“Sorry Carolyn, we’re fine.” Martin replied hastily, peering across the flight deck, shooting Deborah a brief glance as if to confirm just one more time that he was correct, “What about you two? Are you alright?”

Carolyn stepped further into the flight-deck until she could rest with one arm propping her up on the back of Martin’s seat, and Arthur bundled in behind her, looking about the space like a drugged terrier, checking that everything was in the right place.

“Yeah, we’re okay Skip.” Arthur assured him, though his voice was trembling imperceptibly; Deborah attempted a small smile when his eyes fell on her, but she suspected that it didn’t have the desired effect, “Are _you_ okay Deborah? You look a bit peaky.”

“I think that’s acceptable given the circumstances.” Deborah retorted weakly, as Carolyn rolled her eyes, but still terrifyingly peered down at her with something akin to concern; that alone was enough to spur her into action, or as near to it as she could manage, “Shouldn’t someone be getting ready to talk to the fire crew and engineers?”

“I should do that,” Martin interjected as Carolyn opened her mouth to speak; he took the hat from his head to grip it against his chest like a comfort blanket, but didn’t let go of Deborah’s hand, “as the Captain.”

“Martin, you look as if you’re about to keel over.” Carolyn said sternly, shaking her head, “The only place you’re going is into the airport with Arthur. I will stay here with Deborah and talk to the engineers.”

Martin opened his mouth as if to argue, but looked to Deborah for confirmation; giving his hand one last squeeze, Deborah nodded tiredly, and uncurled her fingers from around his. Martin huffed, but nodded resignedly, slouching back in his seat.

It was going to be a long day, and Deborah couldn’t help but fear the worst; on the bright side, everyone was fine…she just wished that they could enjoy that truth for a little while longer before the bureaucracy needed tending to.

oOoOoOo

On the walk back to the others, Deborah was fully prepared to remain silent and be allowed to stew in her own misery while Carolyn stewed in hers; except she knew too well that though vengeful to a tee, Carolyn was not the sort to stew. The only things that she allowed to linger were positive and driving emotions, like revenge, or hatred, or ambition; depression, loss, and dejection were things that hardly touched the surface.

That was what set the women apart really; while Deborah was busy picking at the threads of her epaulets as she walked with her arms folded over her chest, mourning the inevitable disintegration of what was currently her life, Carolyn took the news on the chin, trundled on with a resigned shrug, and began thinking of how to dismantle it herself before the world did it for her.

GERTI was fixable, in theory; the only problem was that they didn’t have the money to fix her. Deborah knew what this meant, and so did Carolyn, but neither of them mentioned it; when the engineers had walked away, Deborah had smiled wanly at Carolyn, to show that she had her back should she desire any moral support (though she wouldn’t say that out loud either), and Carolyn had merely nodded gratefully, called her useless, and told her to get a move on.

“Good job on the landing by the way.” Carolyn remarked as they passed a group of security guards; Deborah startled from her thoughts, and glanced sideways in confusion, to see that Carolyn was looking ahead, a counter against her compliment, “All things considered, nearly getting my head bashed in on the seat in front was quite a feat.”

“What?” Deborah retorted wearily, and then realised what had been said; she shook her head and pursed her lips distractedly, “No, that wasn’t me.”

“Not you?” Carolyn repeated, then her eyes widened and she gaped dramatically, raising a hand into the air as if she could catch the truth; Deborah still didn’t have the energy to mock her for it, “You let _Martin_ take that landing?”

“I didn’t _let_ Martin do anything.” Deborah replied, swallowing down a flare of indignation on Martin’s behalf; it would be silly to get worked up when he could manage that just fine on his own, “He’s the Captain, and he made a command decision.”

“But why didn’t you override it?” Carolyn demanded, her voice laced with disbelief as she made special efforts to catch Deborah’s eye, as if to identify any faults, “I’m all for letting the boy learn, but -”

“Carolyn, if I didn’t trust him to take control, I wouldn’t have let him.” Deborah cut her off, rolling her eyes and sighing exhaustedly, looking away from the other woman as they made their way through the more populated part of the airport, “But Martin is capable, and he is Captain, so I followed the orders that I was given on the understanding that I trusted him to land us safely.”

Deborah managed to take another three or four steps before she noticed that Carolyn had ground to a halt; she turned on her heel, and waited for Carolyn to wander back to her side, eyebrows quirked in perplexed suspicion. On second thought, she supposed that perhaps she was being far too submissive at the moment, still thrown by the landing and the plane; but Deborah wasn’t lying, she really did trust Martin’s judgement.

“Deborah, what has been going on between you and Martin lately?” Carolyn inquired, carefully, as if she would rather not know at all, as they returned to their measured pace; she brought her hands together at her front and glared expectantly.

“I can honestly say Carolyn I have no idea what you mean.” Deborah replied dryly, tugging her arms a little tighter around her chest and trying not to frown.

She knew exactly what Carolyn meant. On top of everything else, GERTI, their jobs, the lingering shock, Deborah also had to deal with the sudden cementation of how she felt about Martin; the wishy washy uncertainty of where the attraction and friendship and other feelings all fit together was irrelevant, because she now knew exactly how she felt. But the last person Deborah wanted to discuss that with was Carolyn.

Thankfully though, Deborah caught sight of Martin sitting dejectedly on a steel bench, cup of coffee in his hand as he talked quietly to Arthur, who was standing over him looking equally pale, but far more optimistic.

“Martin.” Deborah declared her presence, feeling a rush of affection flutter in her chest for the first time when he turned around in his seat, and smiled at the sight of their approach; he was still pale, but the shaking had stopped, and he seemed to be weighted down by the same dreary tiredness that she was.

As she rounded the bench, Martin extended his hand and motioned for her to come and sit beside him, waggling his fingers slowly, placing the coffee cup on his other side; Deborah smiled warmly and reached her hand out to meet him, intertwining her fingers with his, feeling better at the touch.

“Hello.” Martin greeted them; as Carolyn came to stand before them, he pulled Deborah gently down to sit beside him, not putting his arm around her, but letting her rest against his side so close that their arms overlapped and he could keep his hand curled around hers, “What’s the news?”

“Bird strike, as we thought.” Carolyn confirmed, acknowledging Martin’s disappointed grimace with a sympathetic nod of her head.

“A big one.” Deborah added wearily, turning her attention to her nails, picking at the side of her thumb and glancing up at Martin to judge his reaction, “Probably a goose.”

“Oh no! Is it all right?” Arthur exclaimed, his face taking on a stricken pallor as he gazed imploringly down at her.

“What, the goose?” Deborah asked, quirking an eyebrow; she still couldn’t find it in herself to be either entertained or exasperated, and thought that her voice actually came out sounding rather strained, “Yes, Arthur, it’s fine. It’ll have a bit of a headache, but a hell of a story for the goslings.”

“Phew!” Arthur replied, shoulders sagging in relief; Deborah rolled her eyes, but smiled fondly and fleetingly up at him, for the sake of peace if nothing else.

While the three of them discussed the state of GERTI and the most beneficial options in terms of the company, in particular the inability to maintain the company with little money and no legitimate options, Deborah sighed and let herself slump sadly, resting her head on Martin’s shoulder while the rest of them talked amongst themselves.

She had worked it all out herself, and mused that it would have been preferable to just go to sleep and forget their predicament for a few hours; Martin was comfortable, and more important, comforting, which was exactly what Deborah wanted in that moment.

It was just a shame that Carolyn and Arthur probably wouldn’t react too well to her turning and just snuggling into him; then again, she wasn’t sure if Martin would either.

Carolyn wouldn’t listen to Deborah’s suggestions that she call her ex-husband, and though Deborah couldn’t criticise the sentiment on principle (the idea of calling Harry for help made me cringe) her steadfast refusal only added to the overall atmosphere of uselessness. The only saving grace was that Martin played gently with her fingers the entire time, apparently unconsciously.

And then Arthur’s flat out refusal to accept that Deborah wouldn’t fix everything just made her want to slam her head down and pretend he wasn’t there as she argued her case, feeling the mental exhaustion creeping behind her eyelids. As flattering as his faith in her was, she didn’t appreciate it; Deborah had had enough of people’s high expectations of her. They had ruined what she had had with Harry, and created hours of boredom with the grounds people in Fitton; the one thing that ensured she and Martin worked so well was the fact that for all that he complained about her winning all the time, he was under no illusions that Deborah wasn’t fallible.

It was a relief to be dismissed, even if they were being banished to the shoddy canteen. Deborah insisted that they pass through the pilot’s lounge, where Martin had stashed their bags while the engineers poked around the plane, so that she could check her phone, and Martin had come along without question.

The pilot’s lounge was empty when they arrived, as it was only six in the morning in St Petersburg, something for which Deborah was relieved. When they entered, Martin wandered into the room and stood by her side, though she didn’t make any move to dig through her bag.

Deborah turned towards Martin and let her arms fall to her sides, her fingers curling restlessly as she sighed and met his eyes; his expression narrowed and he frowned in a sort of concerned manner, making as if to step forwards.

“What’s-”

At that Deborah stepped forwards and flung her arms around him, pulling Martin into a hug and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, one hand pressing against his back, the other to the back of his neck as she buried her face into the crook between his neck and his shoulder, just holding him close.

“Hey – hey…” Martin exclaimed, bringing his arms up to wrap around her waist and pull her in more closely, squeezing before holding her a few inches away to try and run his eyes over her face even as his own flushed red; when that didn’t quite work, he simply held her tightly, one hand stroking through her hair as he pressed his cheek to the top of her hair, “Come on now, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Deborah murmured, inwardly cursing as she sniffled a little, but relishing how perfect this felt, just about able to feel his chest rising and falling against hers, “I just didn’t get to do this before Carolyn rushed me away, that’s all.”

Martin hummed under his breath, but didn’t say anything in return; he merely swayed slightly and held onto her, every now and then turning his head as if to rest his lips against the top of hers.

Deborah ignored everything except the warmth of him pressed against her, and on relishing every second, brushing her thumbs back and forth where they lay on his back; for the last hour or so she had been aching to get back to him, and to get Martin on his own and forget everything for just a few moments. She didn’t want to let him go, just to hold him and not let go of the flurrying in her chest and the one pinpointed thought in her head that had thundered into certainty once the plane was safely on the ground, and was only cemented and certified as she inhaled deeply and clung to him.

Deborah loved this man.

All of the other things, the kissing and the attraction, their friendship, the state of their relationship, the messy tangle of feelings that hung between them she didn’t want to sort out…none of that was relevant because even if nothing ever happened between them, she loved Martin, so, so much…and she hadn’t realised it until fraught with fear.

But she couldn’t tell him, because that would be ridiculous. Taking one more moment for herself, Deborah pulled back, letting her hands slip to Martin’s upper arms so that she could put a foot of space between them and look up at his face. She let out a shaky laugh when she realised that her eyes were prickling, and shook her head to distract Martin from that fact, pursing her lips though she knew it was pointless.

“Oh, _Deborah_ …” Martin sighed warmly, making as if to pull her back, but settling for rubbing at where his hands lay just above her elbows when she didn’t let him; his face was still flushed, but his blue eyes were dewy, “This can’t just be about the landing.”

“No, of course it’s not…” Deborah retorted weakly, ducking her head as she swallowed hard; she didn’t have it in her to lie or play nonchalant, “I just…are we going to be okay?”

Martin nodded slowly in understanding, and gaze her arms a little squeeze, rubbing his hands over her upper arms as if to warm her on a cold day, smiling tersely.

“Well, if MJN folds, then we’re not strapped for cash, and I’m sure you’ll all find new jobs, so-” he explained, but Deborah shook her head and raised her hands into the air, cutting him short; Martin’s eyebrows furrowed, but he waited for her to wet her lips and gather her breath.

“That’s not what I meant.” Deborah remarked, having to pause as she found that her throat was sticking with emotion even as she cursed her own simplicity; slowly, she lifted her hands to place her fingers gently against Martin’s cheeks, then her palms, holding his gaze as he blinked questioningly at the affectionate gesture, “I mean, if MJN falls apart, what’s going to happen to _us_? I know that the only thing that’s kept us together is the company, and that was fine when we were just colleagues…but we’re... _more_ now…Are _we_ going to be okay?”

Martin opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again; Deborah feared for a moment that she had overstepped, and her thumbs froze where they had been turning small circles against his skin, but before she could step away, he had taken a hand from her arm and placed it over hers, then pulled her back into an embrace, tucking her into his arms.

The rush of relief and contentment as her heart lurched as Deborah curled his hands into the material of Martin’s jacket was pushed aside as he began to murmur beside her ear, close enough that his breath was warm through her hair.

“Of course we’re going to be okay, we’re fine – why wouldn’t we be okay?” Martin’s odd calm evaporated, and Deborah could have laughed at how wonderful it was to have him spluttering again, gripping her tightly, “We’ll be okay, y-you could even help me with Icarus to fill your time…” his chest heaved, and then he shifted to allow Deborah to lean back and meet his gaze, as he smiled shakily, “If you wanted, I mean.”

“That would be nice.” Deborah chuckled softly; then she remembered where they were, and that there was nothing to stop other pilots wandering in and finding the two of them wound around each other, red faced and on the verge of tears, and she let her hands slip from Martin’s back and took another step back, folding her arms over her chest to replace the sensation of loss that remained when his arms fell from hers, “I’d like that.”

“Good…” Martin replied, nodding hastily and far more than necessary; then he glanced abruptly around the room, and rubbed at the back of his neck, “We should – uh, we should probably get moving…”

Deborah hummed in agreement, quirking her eyebrows for emphasis, pleased when Martin chuckled awkwardly and shuffled his feet a bit as she quickly set about doing what she had said she was going to do and checked her phone.

If he slipped his hand into hers as they left the lounge and headed to the canteen, neither of them mentioned it.

oOoOoOo

Deborah had yet to find anything that was actually _wrong_ about Gordon Shappey, but she could definitely see why he and Carolyn no longer clicked. He was grating…and not in the way that Martin was grating.

Martin was grating in the sense that if you weren’t patient you might roll your eyes and walk away, and if you were patient, could find him wonderfully endearing.

Gordon was grating in the sense that he was polite to an extent, but you also wanted to walk away lest you slap him for saying something untoward or assuming; that, and Arthur’s trepidation made Deborah’s skin crawl as she tried to connect Gordon’s gratingness with the implications that Arthur’s nerves brought forth in her mind.

It was quite odd trying to associate the name of Shappey with someone so…un-Arthur-ish. Within moments of leading him to GERTI’s hangar, Deborah found that she was immensely glad that Arthur was entirely and irrevocably Carolyn’s son, and had turned out beautifully without a shred of his father.

Listening to the man talk, Deborah had never appreciated Herc more, nor how perfect he was for Carolyn. Although Herc was a perfectly adept challenger in their little debates, he would listen to Carolyn, concede when he was beaten, and try to lure her into his own passions.

Gordon however spoke straight over her, and very much looked down his nose at her. So all in all, though Gordon Shappey had done nothing to insult her personally, she was unwilling to be too friendly due to the surge of indignant offence on behalf of her employer and her son.

“Oh, look at the state of her,” Gordon exclaimed, throwing a hand into the air the moment that he laid eyes on GERTI, who Deborah thought in all fairness looked rather good despite the charred and scrambled engine on one wing; the engineers that were already in the hangar glanced up at the exclamation, but didn’t waver from their sorry inspections, “the bloody woman wants a hundred thousand for a plane she can’t even look after properly?”

“ _Carolyn_ , does a perfectly good job at maintaining her company.” Deborah replied curtly, flexing her fingers into the hat that she held professionally against her chest; upon hearing that Carolyn’s ex was coming, Deborah had made her best efforts to appear professional so as not to let her down in front of the man, “Incidents aside, she’s a competent and adept CEO.”

Gordon shot her a doubtful look, and his eyebrow crept to his fading hairline as his lips scrunched in the corner.

“I’m sure she is, sweetheart,” Gordon remarked wryly, wrinkling his nose in evident distaste, as he continued to walk around GERTI’s base to inspect the damage; Deborah bristled at the statement, and inhaled slowly to bite back the snide retort on the tip of her tongue.

“That’s Deborah or First Officer Richardson.” Deborah replied sternly, quirking her eyebrow demonstratively, “I’m not a sweetheart, I am a highly skilled pilot for a professional airline, and regardless of your feelings towards my employer, I’d prefer it if I weren’t dismissed or demeaned because of my gender.”

Gordon paused in his trek around the plane, and regarded her with wide eyes, apparently surprised at her forwardness; Deborah made her best efforts to be polite yet stern, and couldn’t help but feel a flare of pride at the response that it invoked.

“Oh, I didn’t mean any offence.” Gordon insisted, scoffing slightly through his nose as if it were no problem at all; it rather ruined any semblance of sincerity that he might have been attempting, “Not at all. I’m all for opportunities for women.”

Deborah fought the temptation to roll her eyes at the patronising edge to ‘opportunities’, the hackles of the feminist within her rising just in case, and instead smiled stiffly.

“Thank you.” She drawled sourly, detesting the taste of the words on her tongue; she rocked back on her heels and nodded towards GERTI, “Now, I think I’ll leave you to it. Don’t hold back if you need to come and ask for help.”

oOoOoOo

Listening to Carolyn and Gordon arguing over prices, Deborah stayed by Arthur’s side, one arm around his back, the other stroking soothingly up and down his arm as he watched his parents with a stricken and nervous paleness on his face that didn’t belong there at all.

Martin stood at his other side, leaning back against the bare desk that came with the office, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he watched the proceedings with a steely expression on his face.

If the flare of protectiveness for Arthur hadn’t been enough to set her against Gordon for good, the way that he was treating Carolyn made her furious enough to want to claw the stubbly skin from his cheeks; as it was, Carolyn could look after herself, and comforting Arthur was her greatest priority. She couldn’t stand to see him upset.

“Oh yeah, I want it.” Gordon growled sadistically, leering far too close to Carolyn, though the woman didn’t waver at all, “And you know why I want it?”

“Yes!” Carolyn retorted, her nose wrinkling indignantly as she threw her hands into the air either side of her, “You want it out of spite because you hate the fact I got it in the divorce.”

“No, no, no.” Gordon batted his hands at her rolling his head so that he could glance about the room; then his expression flipped, and he scowled sarcastically, beginning to pace, “Oh, wait – yes. That’s exactly why. And not so much that you took it off me, even though you couldn’t fly the bloody thing; not even that you then used it to play airlines with one pilot who failed his CPL four times …”

Martin squeaked indignantly, and Deborah glared at Gordon with a renewed hatred, squaring her shoulders and stilling in her comforting of Arthur, who remained silently; nobody insulted Martin, and definitely not over that.

“… and one who got thrown out of Air England for having sticky fingers.” Gordon continued; when Deborah gaped furiously, eyebrows rising threateningly, he smirked pointedly at her and pointed his finger at her from across the room as if settling a score, “Yeah, I’ve looked you up.”

Deborah almost snapped back, but decided against it when she felt Arthur hunch into himself a fraction more beneath her hands; when she glanced up to check his miserably blank expression, she caught sight of Martin scowling angrily and rising up, his back straightening as his chest puffed out, his eyes burning into Gordon, though he didn’t make a move.

“No, it’s just because you called your airline My Jet Now. As soon as I heard that, I said to Hayley – she sends her love, by the way, though obviously she doesn’t mean it – “Right,” I said, “I’m having that back off her.”” Gordon began to rant, pacing but making sure to keep Carolyn in his sights; Deborah had to admit even as she grew more and more irritable on her behalf, Carolyn was doing admirably, keeping her face set and never wavering under the onslaught.

“And you know what I’m gonna do with it? I’m gonna break it up for parts and sell the rest as scrap – except for the tail fin.” Gordon enunciated more clearly, squaring himself like a faulty imitation of a mafia boss, but shrunken and embittered with age, “That I’m gonna ship back to England and hang above my mantelpiece … after, of course, I’ve re-sprayed it NYBJAMS – Not Your Bloody Jet Any More, Sweetheart.”

“So, me and the guys are going to a hotel now.” Gordon stilled, and drifted his hands in a facsimile of reason, as if presenting himself as a model businessman, “I’ll be back in this office nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Either you’re there and you take five hundred quid for it, like you know you have to, or you’re not and I fly home happy in the knowledge that you’re shafted.”

When nobody said a word, Carolyn glaring him down with a stiff expression on her face that Deborah knew was just a very efficient way to stop herself from saying something that would only give Gordon the feeling of superiority that he wanted, he turned as if to leave.

“Dad?” Arthur asked dejectedly, making Gordon pause and turn back to the crew; Deborah’s heart plummeted the instant that she saw the disinterest in his face and the slump of his posture, but she couldn’t close her hands around Arthur’s arm quickly enough to stop him from stepping forward, his hands clasped at his front.

“What?” Gordon demanded, as Arthur stumbled to a halt.

“You’ve forgotten your gin.” Arthur told him, his eyes widening hopefully as he addressed his father; Deborah glanced across at Martin as she kept a hold on Arthur’s sleeve with the tip of her fingers, but he could only offer a helpless shake of his head.

“I don’t drink cheap gin.” Gordon growled, throwing his hand carelessly through the air, “You keep that.”

With that Gordon stormed from the room, letting the door slam behind him. Nobody spoke for a moment, and Arthur seemed to retract into himself, treading back to lean against the desk beside Martin, allowing Deborah to pull him back into the half-embrace of before while Carolyn watched the recently vacated space.

“And yet you say the marriage wasn’t a success?” Deborah remarked wryly; Carolyn needed something to spur her back into action.

It worked, as a moment later, Carolyn was bustling around the office while Martin murmured something comforting to Arthur, patting him on the back as Arthur nodded and smiled strained smiles.

It wasn’t enough that Gordon was trying to tear apart the company; now he had gone too far, and Deborah didn’t know how she was going to do it yet, but she was going to make him suffer. She just needed time to think.

oOoOoOo

It was mid-afternoon by the time they landed back in Fitton, exhausted but triumphant in the knowledge that MJN would live to fly another day; Deborah had beamed most of the way home, pleased with her own genius, and insurmountably proud of Martin’s word game efforts, whilst relishing the fact that they were all staying together thanks to Gordon’s badly executed scheme.

Carolyn and Arthur disappeared soon after the post-landing checks were completed, and neither she nor Martin could blame them after the day that they had had. In light of that, Deborah had remained behind while Martin filled out the paperwork.

As they slipped on their coats and hoisted their flight bags over their shoulders, Martin and Deborah strolled to their vehicles, which were parked side by side.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m glad that’s all over.” Martin sighed, leaning back against the side of his van and pushing a hand through his hair, a morose smile curling the corner of his lips.

Deborah smirked, but paused where she had her hand on the lock of her car, and turned to rest against the bonnet, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat.

“Hmmm, that was enough excitement to last me a week.” Deborah remarked, meeting Martin’s gaze; after the day that they had had, she had thought that looking into his blue eyes might have been more difficult, but somehow, knowing now how she felt about him, how _much_ she felt about him, it only made it easier; the only problem was that she didn’t want to let him go yet, “It’s still early…do you want to pop round mine, see what’s in the fridge?”

Martin’s smile settled more comfortably on his lips, and he let his eyes drop to his feet before he pushed away from the van.

“Hmmm, sounds good.” He replied, trailing off with a little hum as he wandered to her side; then he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders just a fraction, “I mean, if you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes and lifting her hand to nudge gently at his chest, chuckling under her breath; she nodded towards the car, and watched as Martin took the suggestion and strode around to the passenger side; before he could open the door, Deborah rested her arm over the top of the car, and leaned in, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he paused and waited attentively, “You know Martin, you’re round mine often enough…I should really just give you a key.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah, that's series 3 over! I'm thrilled, but also now gearing up for the next leg.
> 
>  
> 
> In other news, I've finished writing my original novel, so all I need to do is proof-read and then find someone willing to act as a test subject for it before I can do anything with it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this


	29. Interlude 10

**Interlude 10**

The first flight after the fiasco in St Petersburg, Carolyn had been convinced (and it had taken a lot of convincing) to splash out just a little more than usual on accommodation for the crew; rather than the pits of the country, she had booked them into the same holiday inn that tourists used just outside the airport in Madrid, on the basis that one of the rooms was a shared room.

Deborah and Martin had been quick to agree to share and graciously allow Arthur his own room, much to his pleasure as he assumed that it was a sign that they were bestowing the best option upon him; Carolyn would be staying in Fitton, apparently to gain some well-earned rest, although they suspected that she was actually going to use the time to see Herc, who had called the porta-cabin three times since he had heard about the almost crash landing.

It was still an uncomfortable arrangement for Deborah, who had to endured Herc’s smarmy remarks whenever he was around (which was growing more and more frequent), but she supposed that if Carolyn was happy, she could put on a plain face and be polite…to an extent.

While Deborah lay on her back on the bed beside the window, legs crossed at the ankle as she flicked through the channels on the television, all of which were dull, dull, dull, she watched out of the corner of her eyes as Martin went about strategically placing his most important items on and inside the bedside table while he crouched beside his open suitcase. He chewed distractedly on his bottom lip, and hummed under his breath, which might have been distracting, had Deborah been paying any attention to what she was actually doing.

“Martin, I’m bored.” Deborah drawled, letting her raised hand flop onto the covers as Martin paused in his arranging and placed the travel clock in his hand onto the bedside table, raising an eyebrow expectantly, “I simply can’t stay cooped up in here for any longer.”

“And what do you suggest I do about that?” Martin inquired dryly, turning to perch on the edge of his own bed, resting his palms on his knees; Deborah grinned, pleased that he had so willingly fallen into her trap.

“Well, on the way here I spotted a charming little bar slash restaurant on the main road.” Deborah explained, hoisting herself into a sitting position and propping herself up on her elbows as she turned to face Martin directly, “I thought we could go and while away the hours there.”

“In a bar?” Martin repeated doubtfully, his eyes narrowing as he relaxed somewhat; even on the best of days, it was hard to convince him to go anywhere that he wasn’t already eager to visit, “What do you want to do in a bar?”

“First and foremost, Martin, I’m hungry.” Deborah replied shortly, rolling her eyes at his fondly suspicious expression; his thoughtfulness was touching, but completely unnecessary, “And I’d quite like to see something other than the inside of these four walls tonight…” after a moment of consideration she decided to tug on his heartstrings and pout dramatically, “ _Please_ come with me.”

Martin sighed but as he rolled his eyes and shook his head despairingly, his lips curled into a smile and he began to rise clumsily from the bed, stumbling a little when his knees locked; Deborah watched with her lips pressed together, waiting for definitive confirmation.

“Yeah, sure…just give me a minute to get ready.” Martin told her, and without waiting for a response, strode into the small bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him; Deborah watched his back in confusion as he went, pulling herself up so that she was sitting with her legs over the side of the bed.

There was no denying that Martin had his odd habits, but really, this was bewildering; they were both still in their uniform, and reasonably tidy, so Deborah couldn’t imagine how Martin could possibly be ‘getting ready’ for a night down the pub. She imagined fleetingly that he was dressing up for her, as one might before a date, but shook her head hastily; it was a ridiculous idea.

When Martin reappeared, looking no different from before save for a slight rosiness to his cheeks that could have come from splashing water over his face to wake himself up, Deborah took a moment to trace her eyes up and down him and appreciate the sight, aided by the cheerful demeanour that he carried with him. It was no more than what _he_ usually did when he saw _her_ in anything other than her uniform, and sometimes even then.

“You set to go then?” Martin asked, clapping his hands together before him as he looked down at where Deborah was still perched on the end of her bed; before he could notice that she was effectively eyeing him up, she smiled swiftly and rose to her feet.

“Absolutely,” Deborah replied dramatically, as she strode past him to the door, curving her arm through the air and smirking at the light chuckle that escaped his lips while Martin adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves, “If you’d be so kind as to follow me.”

Once they had both bustled into the hall, and Deborah had pulled the door shut behind them, she turned back to Martin and began the slow and steady trek through the hotel; Martin stuck his elbow out imperceptibly as they walked side by side, and Deborah, after stalling momentarily and wetting her lips, took the bait and slipped her arm through his, glancing up at the same moment that he glanced down and smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly.

It was only when they were in the lift that Deborah noticed the warm, rather nice rustic smell that had followed them into the confined space; she had assumed that the halls just smelled like that, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Trying to sniff as inconspicuously as possible, as Martin was preoccupied reading a poster that was tacked to the wall, Deborah glanced around the small metal box, before telling herself that it was ridiculous, and leaning back against Martin, looking forward. Then she turned her face ever so slightly into his shoulder and inhaled deeply.

It _was_. Leaning in a little further, curling her arm more securely around his, Deborah shifted her head back so that she could turn subtly into his neck, and inhaled again; by this point Martin had noticed her apparent surge of affection, and was tilting his head away from her, his forehead furrowed in confusion.

“Martin, are you wearing _cologne_?” Deborah asked in befuddled disbelief, swallowing awkwardly to brush under the carpet the fact that she had pretty much been smelling him; if it _was_ cologne, then it was _very_ good at its job, she thought as little shivers of arousal crept up her spine.

“What? No, just uh- just aftershave.” Martin blushed and cleared his throat, his eyes flittering away from her and towards the thin line at the door of the lift, as his hands shifted and clenched twitchily, “Why, do…you…like it?”

“Oh, yes; it’s _enthralling._ ” Deborah drawled, bringing her other hand to curl around Martin’s arm as she blinked heavily and dragged her eyes up the curve of his neck, even though she knew that it was completely inappropriate given their agreement, and that there was no chance that he would miss the motion; then a thought occurred, and she leaned back, nose wrinkling, “Wait – you went in the bathroom to shave…at this time of night?”

This was blatantly untrue, as a cursory inspection showed that Martin was neither shaved nor in immediate need of one, even though, now she thought about it, Deborah could see that he had combed his hair.

“Um, no, I mean – uhh…” Martin spluttered, rubbing at the back of his neck, growing more and more red, but before he could carry on, the lift door swished open with a ping, and his eyes grew desperately wide, “Oh look! Here we are, let’s get moving before the pub closes.”

With that Martin very nearly dragged her from the lift, through the hotel lobby, and most of the way down the street before he realised that he had no idea where they were going.

oOoOoOo

Carolyn’s generosity hadn’t extended to the company card, so upon reaching the pub (which was showing no signs of closing any time soon, regardless of Martin’s exaggerated show of relief) Deborah had gone about ordering them the cheapest item on the menu, and they had tucked themselves into the table nearest to the back wall.

“Okay, I have a new game which I think you might actually stand a chance at.” Deborah announced, stealing a chip from the shared basket as she slipped further around the extended bench to sit beside Martin until their arms were brushing, facing the rest of the customers, “It’s a bit like people watching, but instead of trying to work out who they are, you have to guess what their superpowers would be if they had them.”

“How do you mean?” Martin asked, leaning against her as if to compound the idea of covertly observing the other punters, and peering into the crowd, his nose wrinkling as his eyebrows dipped in the middle.

“Well, for example…” Deborah replied, resting one elbow in the table between them so that she could surreptitiously angle her finger through the mass of people, before she fixed her sights on one person, and smirked, nudging Martin to draw his attention, “That man there – he has huge feet, _so_ , if he were a superhero, his superpower could be that his huge feet help him to bounce across large distances.”

“Oh, okay!” Martin exclaimed, chuckling from deep within his chest and grinning as he too hoisted his elbows onto the table so that he could inspect the people around them; Deborah watched his face rather than the path that his fingers were making through the air, and cherished the contented blush that stretched across his freckled cheeks, “I’ve got one!”

“Go on then.” Deborah prompted him, eager to discover which of the many customers that Martin had chosen; there was quite a range after all.

“Right, you see that woman there, with the blonde hair and the green dress?” Martin pointed into the crowd, and it took Deborah barely a second to spot who he was talking about; of course naughty Captain Crieff’s eyes had been drawn in that direction Deborah mused with a fond sigh, nodding as he waited eagerly for his time to shine, “Okay…so, if she were a superhero, she would be able to blind villains with the dazzling brightness of her bleached hair.”  
Deborah couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her lips, and she had to glance down at her hands so that she didn’t do something drastic when she saw the proud grin that curled Martin’s lips and made his face glow with self-satisfaction.

“Fantastic Martin,” Deborah drawled, unable to muster any real heat as the smile refused to fade from her lips, and she had to look up through the loose strands of her hair to address him, as she kept her hands firmly secured and extended over the table top, “It sounds like you’ve got the hang of this one.”

“I have.” Martin chirped, far too pleased with himself for it to be healthy, though Deborah couldn’t deny him that; without warning, he lifted his hand to carefully tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear, and even as she startled and turned her head to follow the movement in surprise, he didn’t seem to notice, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, “So…how do we know who wins this game?”

“Well obviously the winner is the one who can invent the most interesting superheroes.” Deborah answered, swallowing hard and smiling wanly across at him as he hand moved slowly back to its original position; she may have accepted the existence of her feelings regarding Martin, but that didn’t make them any less awkward to deal with when he insisted upon being so handsy with her. Not that she was going to complain.

Martin nodded and pursed his lips, staring unabashedly into the crowd with a determined glint in his eyes; if she had had a camera Deborah would have captured the picture for posterity, just so that she could whip it out the next time Martin tried to insist that he wasn’t at all competitive.

They continued playing until the food was gone from their plates and an hour had passed, both of them propped up on their elbows and picking random people from the crowd around the bar. Martin was particularly good at this game, Deborah discovered, and as she tried to temper down a giggle that hadn’t quite stopped bubbling for a good twenty minutes, she simply smiled and allowed him to steam ahead, taking the reins and filling the night with his own imaginings, all of which were witty in a way that only Martin could manage (only just within the lines of political correctness).

As she allowed her eyes to linger on the brightness of his smile and the red glow of his cheeks as he chuckled lightly, Deborah let herself giggle and smile attentively, and mused as the fluttering in her chest reached a fiery crescendo that she would give anything to remain this happy with Martin, just to keep having this much fun with him forever.

Since the fiasco at St Petersburg, Deborah had spent far too much time reconsidering her shocked decision about her feelings towards him, but all that that had achieved was to compound the fact that she loved him.

Deborah loved Martin, but now, watching him laugh and glance to her for confirmation of his comical genius, she thought that she loved him enough that she would be happy to stay just friends, so long as they kept having fun like this.

“What?” Martin asked, pausing in his litany to stare back at her; Deborah jolted back to reality, and raised an eyebrow inquisitively in response, earning a playfully suspicious glare from Martin, “You’re staring.”

“I was just thinking that we could move to the bar and let someone who needs the table have it.” Deborah suggested, nodding towards the bar which, around which the crowd had thinned a bit over the past hour; she was somewhat relieved that Martin just accepted that she was telling the truth.

“Oh, good idea.” Martin remarked, and immediately began stacking their plates to make it easier for the staff to clear away later; Deborah waited for him to carry out his routine (having sat through it many a time in the past), and then rose to her feet without a word, knowing that he would follow on her heels as she crossed the room, weaving between the occasional straggler to reach the bar.

Once there, Deborah ordered her customary apple juice, but was surprised when Martin did the same, thanking the barman and batting his hand away when Deborah tried to pay for their drinks.

“You know Martin, just because I’m not drinking doesn’t mean you can’t.” Deborah noted nonchalantly, curling her fingers around the coolness of the glass and peering up at him through her eyelashes as Martin mirrored her posture, leaning back against the bar and turning so that they were facing each other.

“I know…” Martin replied, trailing off into his drink, making a show of gulping as if to draw attention away from himself, but failing dismally; Deborah quirked an eyebrow, and he sighed, lowering his hand, “I’m just, being a supportive friend, that’s all.”

“Yes…well…thank you.” Deborah murmured, dropping her gaze; feeling Martin’s eyes prickling at the back of her neck, she smiled and raised her glass in a facsimile of a toast, snorting at the cheerful and clumsy mess that Martin made when he clinked his against hers, sloshing apple juice over his hand.

They stayed in the bar for a while, chatting and continuing their game, bumping elbows as they went through another round of apple juice; if Deborah had been keeping count, she might have said that it was one of the most pleasant evenings that they had spent together in a while.

That was until Martin stiffened, and his expression turned dire, like a terrier freezing in the middle of a run; Deborah turned her head to see what had caught his attention, only to find that a group of three men, all in expensive looking pilot’s uniforms, entering the pub.

“Oh, Martin,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes and him and prodding his wrist with the back of her knuckles, taking in the grimace that contorted his face, “They’re only pilots, not the mafia.”

“But you know what I’m like with other pilots!” Martin hissed, gripping his glass tightly and shifting closer to her; then he blanched, and rapped his free hand at her upper arm, “Oh no, they’re coming over here…”

True to his word, the three pilots were making their way across the room; Deborah smiled politely as their Captain, a man with black hair and a haggard face that made her place him somewhere in his mid-forties, nodded in greeting, and pulled up to the bar beside them.

“Hello there,” the Captain announced in a northern English accent as he reached out to shake Martin’s hand, jovially, taking no notice of the shaky and clumsy way that Martin received him, his cheeks flushing red, “Which company are you two with then?”

“Um, we’re with MJN – you probably haven’t heard of it.” Martin replied, trailing off with a truncated awkward laugh; when the other pilots just blinked expectantly, Martin swung an arm around Deborah’s back to bring her forwards and more into the group, “I’m Martin – uh, Captain, Martin Crieff, and this is um, this is Deborah, my First Officer.”

Deborah smiled thinly again, extending her hand towards the Captain, but retracted it when he, and his buddies, merely nodded in response to Martin’s words and scanned their eyes from her head to her toes; only the youngest, blonde haired and ruddy cheeked made a move to shake her hand, but fell back when the more elderly gentleman in front of him impeded his way as he nudged the Captain’s elbow with his own.

“Is she really?” The Captain inquired through the corner of his mouth, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels in a way that made his chest puff out; he winked at Deborah, and smirked, “Well, good for you.”

Deborah bit her tongue to stop herself from retorting, lest she embarrass Martin more than he already was purely from existing where the other pilots could see him, and folded her arms tightly over her chest, leaning back until she could feel Martin’s arm, secure and safe at her back.

“Isn’t it just.” She drawled, and then peered around the group, making sure to sound snide, superior, and dismissive, as Carolyn would in such a situation; there was a gnawing in her guts that warned Deborah of what kind of gathering this would be, and she planned to cut that short before she time to find out, “And you are?”

“Oh, how rude of me.” The Captain exclaimed apologetically; he pressed a hand to his chest, “I’m Steve,” gestured to the elder man, “This is Mike, the First Officer,” and then to the younger man, who smiled fleetingly and ducked his head at the notice, “and this is Luke, the relief pilot.”

“So you’ve come off a long flight then?” Martin inquired, embarrassment gone with the flood of interest in other pilots that hadn't turned away after a few words with him; he kept his arm around Deborah’s back, forgetting that it was there, but the tension in his limbs eased, “Where from?”

“All the way from Japan,” Steve answered, sighing and shaking his head as if sharing some sort of in joke; he glanced back to Mike and nudged nodded pointedly, “Hell of a way to come only to slam her half-exhausted down in the crosswind, wasn’t it Mike?”

“Oh, yeah, it had us there for a minute,” Mike chuckled dryly, and both pilots turned to laugh while the young Luke looked on bashfully, and Martin blinked cluelessly, wearing that on edge, wide-eyed look that he wore when he thought that he was being included (it brought back sour memories of trying to integrate him with the grounds workers), “Luke here got a real fright.”

Martin giggled nervously as Luke smiled wanly at the men’s guffaws, neither of them looking as if their hearts were in it; Deborah imagined that young Luke was as nervous and jumpy as Martin had been in the first few weeks that he had been at MJN, before his rank had gone to his head of course.

“Um, what type of plane are you flying?” Martin asked in an attempt to move the conversation onwards in the only way that he knew how; Deborah felt a swell of affection for him, but that dimmed slightly when the conversation actually progressed.

It turned out that while Martin was doing well, managing to maintain a discussion about flying and this and that with Steve and Mike, Deborah was completely ignored by the both of them, despite Martin’s attempts to involve her in his stories. She tried not to pout as she let their words wash into inconsequential waffle and she pulled away from Martin’s embrace (though he put up little fight where that was concerned), but she couldn’t help but feel a little petulant.

The only saving grace was that the young Luke was standing slightly to the side, watching the conversation with a small hopeless frown as he worried his hat between his hands and pushed a hand through his blonde hair; now that she looked again, Deborah didn’t think he could be more than twenty-five. When he saw her looking, he blushed and smiled shyly, rocking nervously on his feet.

“Have you been flying long?” Deborah inquired politely, quietly enough that it wouldn’t disturb the men’s discussion even if they had been listening; Martin spared her a sideways glance as she turned away from the group, arms loosely looped over her chest, but other than that, there was zero acknowledgment.

“Just a month.” Luke replied lightly, his smile wavering and widening with nerves as he licked his lips and looked about the room; Deborah waited patiently for him to make his way back to her, “Have you…been flying long?”

“Oh, years and years and years.” Deborah told him, smirking as his eyes widened, impressed; it was almost possible to see his ears pricking like a puppy that had caught a scent.

“Really?” Luke exclaimed softly, his hands stilling as he clenched his hat between his hands and gazed at her in something akin to amazement, “So, you must be really good at it if you’ve stuck with flying for such a long time?”

“Well, yes, I _am_ very good at flying.” Deborah admitted, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly and pursing her lips; she could recognise post-training jitters anywhere, and the droop of the lad’s limbs screamed dejection, “However, time is not a good way to judge skill. Just because a pilot might be clumsy to begin with doesn’t mean that in ten years they won’t be a pro.”

“Yeah, but, if the tricky runways scare me now…” Luke started, but Deborah cut him off, leaning in conspiratorially and gesturing for him to come closer, as if she were divulging a long held secret.

“Let me tell you, if they didn’t scare you now, then you’d never learn, would you?” Deborah explained in a hushed tone, watching the young man’s forehead furrow in helpless confusion; she took pity, and smiled encouragingly, “Look at it this way – are you familiar with Narsarsuaq Airport in Greenland?” he nodded hastily, and Deborah continued, “It’s one of the trickiest in the world, and in my first ever week flying, years and years ago, my Captain told me to land there. I almost dipped the nose into the lake at the end of the damn thing.” Luke’s eyes grew wide and he very nearly gasped, “But _now_ , because I learned from that, I’m able to land perfectly in all sorts of places. You see?”

“Yeah, I do.” Luke replied, stepping back and gazing into the distance as if he had seen the light of god; he beamed anxiously at Deborah, and she felt the charming glow of a job well done, “Thank you.”

“So is she any good then?” Deborah’s head snapped up at the sound of Steve’s voice rising as he nodded in her direction, and found that Martin was glancing towards her, rubbing at the back of his neck as opened and closed his mouth a few times; she clenched her mouth shut to avoid snapping that she _was_ there.

“Deborah’s a very good pilot, yes.” Martin answered, reaching his arm out as if to motion for her to come back to his side and talk herself up; she shook her head imperceptibly, staring holes into the Captain’s cheeks, though he wasn’t paying a lick of attention to her, “She’s very talented.”

“She must be good on the flight-deck.” Mike leered, nudging Steve, who chuckled along with him; Martin’s eyes narrowed, perplexed, but Deborah had enough, and huffed, scowling slightly.

She didn’t want to ruin Martin’s evening, and she knew that it was insignificant really, so she stepped back to Martin’s side and placed her hand on his arm, smiling weakly to get his attention as the other two muttered amongst themselves.

“I’m just going to pop to the bathroom,” Deborah told him, patting Martin on the back and nodded demonstratively at the other pilots, “I’ll be back in a minute, just enjoy yourself.”

Deborah stayed in the pub’s bathroom for longer than was probably necessary, but in her defence, she didn’t think she could stand not to tear into the other pilots without a few more minutes to calm down and make peace with the fact that they were going to ignore and demean her. There was nothing she could do about that, but she _could_ make sure that she didn’t get removed from the premises for slapping someone.

Once she had taken a deep breath and pusher her hair over her shoulders, Deborah strode back into the main area…expect, she was forced to pause before she came to the bar, still out of sight, at the tableau before her.

Martin was standing apart from the other pilots, hands clenched at his side, face set and red as if he were fuming; what really made Deborah trip to a halt though was what he was saying.

 _“ - she is a skilled and talented professional, and will be treated with the same amount of respect as any other member of my crew!”_ Martin demanded furiously, his voice sharp and reedy, indignant in a way that reminded her of when he tried to defend his rank, only far more decisive as he wielded his pointed finger at the group.

Well, Mike and Steve; Luke was standing a little bit apart from them, looking mortified as he stared at his hands. A thud of resignation dropped in Deborah’s stomach, but she didn’t move quite yet.

“Oh, I see, you _haven’t,_ but you _want_ to.” Mike remarked, ducking his head as if to murmur to Steve, though he made no efforts to lower his voice; it was no surprise. For all that Martin was fuming, he wasn’t a particularly impressive view beside them.

“I can see why though.” Steve noted, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets; it was then that Deborah decided to step in, before Martin lurched forwards and punched one of them, as he looked absolutely ready to do.

“Hello boys,” Deborah drawled, clapping her hands together as all four men seemed to rock back on their heels, separating imperceptibly and glancing around the bar, “How are we all getting along?”

“We’re leaving.” Martin declared, before anyone else could get a word in edgeways; Deborah made a noise of protest when his hand curled around her back, but upon seeing the determined set of his jaw, she allowed him to turn her away from the group and begin striding across the pub, leaving them behind without a word of farewell, “It’s getting late, so we’re leaving.”

Neither of them said a word until they reached the hotel, and had exited the lift as it deposited them on their floor; with the steady pace that Martin was maintaining, and the murderous expression on his face, Deborah had decided that it was best to just leave him to stew and concentrate on the moths turning happy little circles in her chest.

When they reached the door to their room, Martin made no move to find his key, but turned to lean stormily against the wall, glaring at a patch of carpet across the hall. Deborah paused, wrapping her arms over her chest, and tread lightly to stand beside him.

“You know Martin, we didn’t have to leave.” Deborah suggested brightly, attempting to smile and cheer him up; Martin scowled and his eyes flickered up to meet hers.

“Yes we did, you’re my friend.” Martin insisted decisively, cheeks flushing in indignation, and his hands continued to worm at his sides, “You deserve respect, and I wasn’t going to let you stay there to be insulted.”

Sighing, Deborah moved to rest against the wall beside him, and brushed the back of her hand against his arm; Martin glanced down to watch the movement, but didn’t say a word.

“Did they ask if you’d slept with me yet?” she asked tentatively; it wasn’t hard to tell from the direction that the conversation had taken what had riled Martin up so badly, but that didn’t explain why he was in such a mood about it.

“Wha – yes, yes they did.” Martin retorted bitterly, pouting his lips and scowling as he watched her fingers make another journey up his arm; then he shook his head and bit at his bottom lip, throwing his other arm into the air, “I just- it’s completely inappropriate! You’re far too good a pilot, and a _person_ to be demeaned and insulted like that, a-as if by being a woman I-I-I, whichever pilot y-you’re flying with is instantly entitled to do with you what they please!” Martin huffed and gritted his teeth, “You’re worth _so much_ more than that, and I won’t stand for it!”

“Martin, as sweet a thought as that might be, I don’t need you to defend my honour.” Deborah remarked quietly, focusing on his shoulder and ignoring the rush of resigned joy that the thought brought her.

“Yes I do!” Martin insisted, in a tone that allowed no argument; he turned to stare at her directly, “If you’re not there to do it yourself, then I’m not going to let people talk about you behind your back.”

Unsure of what to say, caught off guard by the sincerity that Martin was exuding as he gazed into her eyes, Deborah stilled, her hand pausing in its path up and down his arm. Then, coming to a decision without really thinking about it, her hand slipped from Martin’s arm up to where the fabric of his collar sat stiffly, while her other hand rose to brush the tips of her fingers firmly against the side of his chin.

Martin’s eyebrows pinched in the middle, but he turned his head at the light pressure at his chin. Taking that as a positive sign, Deborah splayed her fingers over his cheek, gripped at his collar, and rose up on her toes, pressing her lips to his, cherishing the soft sound of surprise before she lingered for just a moment, relishing the feel of his nose pressing back against hers and his lips parting slightly before she pulled away.

His hand had moved slowly to rest at her elbow, and Martin let it fall back to his side as Deborah stepped back; she couldn’t quite tell, but she thought that the tickling in her cheeks might have been a pink flush to match his own scarlet on, as he blinked slowly, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“What…um, what was that for?” Martin inquired thickly, swallowing hard and making his best efforts at looking nonchalant, having rocked away from the wall, his hands now drifting to his pockets with nowhere better to go.

Deborah smiled shyly, and glanced at his rumpled collar before meeting his gaze; she didn’t think she could tell him that it was just because she had wanted to.

“For being nice to me.” She replied lightly, wrapping her arms securely around her chest again; Martin exhaled what might have been a laugh, but she couldn’t be sure as his eyes dropped from hers.

“I’m always nice to you.” He shot back, with little heat behind his words as he glanced around the hall, and rocked on his heels, nervous yet loose limbed and calm.

“Yes.” Deborah acknowledged, smiling tentatively, trying to regain some of her usual swagger, and failing miserably as neither of them seemed to be moving forwards or backwards, in any sense, “Yes you are.”

She supposed that was something; she couldn’t have said that a year ago.


	30. The Visitors from the Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, for anyone who hasn't read the first fic in this series, I suggest you do that now, as this chapter relates directly to it, and you probably won't understand most of what happens without the insider knowledge.  
> That's all, enjoy the fic

**Visitors from the Other Side**

The day started out the same as most other days, and Deborah didn’t even notice that anything was odd until she was in the porta-cabin half an hour late, as usual, only to find that nobody else was present. The door jammed as usual, but open swinging open, she wasn’t met by the humming and over excited greetings that would usually grace her ears.

Carolyn, she knew, was taking the day off to spend with Herc, even though she claimed that he merely happened to turn up when she was free of responsibilities; it was only by the skin of her teeth that Deborah didn’t mock or tease her employer, knowing that if she made Carolyn uncomfortable with the arrangement, she might also ruin her chances for happiness. The things that she did for her friends.

Martin and Arthur however had no excuse for not being in the porta-cabin when she expected them to be; their vehicles had been the last things that Deborah had looked at before she had pulled out her phone and walked by step memory across the car park.

Now she waited, slouched in her seat, feet up on the desk, spinning ever so slightly from side to side, checking her watch every now and then. It was infuriating; Deborah had little else to do until they turned up, and there was no reason for them not to be there, entertaining her.

Deborah wanted to interrogate Arthur about his progress with the girl from the library; things still hadn’t been moving ahead as he’d have liked, she still didn’t want to go on a proper date or accept his kind gestures, even though she was happy to sit and drink coffee with him. Deborah had been feeding him advice, turning it into her pet project on the side, and she was eager to know what had happened over their two day break from work.

Martin…she just wanted to see Martin; it had been two days since Deborah had spoken to him, busy as he was with van jobs, and so she was just a little indignant about the fact that he wasn’t waiting in the porta-cabin just as eager to see her as she was.

Another two minutes passed, and Deborah decided that the boredom was already stretched too far; letting out a dramatic sigh, she slipped her phone from her pocket and dialled the number at the top of her contacts list, pressing the device daintily against her ear and pursing her lips as the dial tone rang out once, then twice, then cut off abruptly, only to be replaced by a rustling and the familiar clearing of a throat.

“Martin, my gallant and dashing Captain,” Deborah drawled salaciously, before he could make his excuses; she noted the small scoff that came from the other end of the line, but was unable to identify any other surrounding sounds, “where are you?”

 _“I’m at work, where are you?”_ Martin retorted unhelpfully; Deborah rolled her eyes, and slumped back in her seat, inspecting the nails of her spare hand. Of course he expected her to be running even later than she was; if he hadn’t, then he would have been there to meet her, rather than away somewhere doing his own thing without her.

“I am also at work and suffering from a particular absence of colleagues.” Deborah remarked wryly, listening to the nervous gulp that must have emanated from Martin’s throat, “I’m going to assume that you have Arthur with you?”

 _“Oh god,”_ Martin groaned as if realising his mistake, then he spluttered before Deborah could add her own disdain at the fact; the man sure knew how to make someone feel welcome, “ _I mean yes, he’s with me.”_

“Oh god?” Deborah repeated, letting her feet slip from the desk as she straightened, ready to stand if she needed to; there was no doubt that there was something Martin didn’t want her to see, and that alone was worrying, “Martin, what have you done?”

 _“We haven’t done anything_ …” Martin insisted, and it sounded as if he were lowering his voice; Deborah couldn’t begin to imagine where on the airfield he could be that required that, “ _it’s just, something’s happened, it’s hard to explain over the phone.”_

“What’s happened? Are you alright?” Deborah demanded, becoming more worried now, lowering her open palm onto the desk, leaning her weight on it to centre herself, “Do you need to me come and help?”

 _“No-…”_ Martin replied, but Deborah cut him off, unwilling to listen to a list of excuses when she could quite clearly hear the deception in Martin’s tone, as well as the flaring of his temper; something awful must have happened for him to have become so defensive so quickly. It normally took a lot longer.

“Martin, if something’s happened you need to tell me,” she instructed firmly, gritting her teeth to prevent herself from sounding as concerned as she was; better to focus on irritation for being made to endure lonely boredom, “otherwise I’ll sit here worrying that you’ve managed to drop Arthur into Dirk’s wood-chipper, or fallen into something terrible yourself, or that you’re being held hostage…”

 _“Will you just shut up and listen for - ”_ Martin snapped, and Deborah sat back in her seat, eyes widening in indignant surprise.

“Did you just tell me to shut up when I’m being concerned on your behalf?” Deborah asked dryly, rapping her fingers against the desk; there was definitely something wrong if Martin was getting waspish with her, but not wrong enough that he had given in and asked for her help.

 _“Yes,_ _I did just say that -_ ” Martin replied, sticking to his guns and maintaining his stressed and harried tone; he was using his ‘I am the Captain’ voice, so she supposed that he couldn’t be in too much trouble. In which case, she was being deliberately excluded.

“Oh, well then, I’m going to assume that you’re fine and that you’re _hiding_ something from me,” Deborah drawled irritably, taking pains not to sound as insulted as she felt, “in which case, I want to know what’s going on right now!”

 _“Fine! Fine!”_ Martin hissed, growling under his breath; Deborah only had a few moments of victory to savour before she heard Martin choke and retort, _“Wait, did you not even look around when you arrived?”_

“I was on my phone.” She replied dully, glancing across the porta-cabin in confusion; Deborah couldn’t imagine what there could have been to see on the air-field, but now her head was reeling a little more. What the hell was Martin up to?

“ _Of course_ …” Martin sighed, and she could just hear him rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Martin, I’ve had enough of this, I’m coming to find you.” Deborah remarked, though she made no move to rise to her feet despite her warning save for the tensing of her shoulders; if Martin had been there, she would have fixed him with a petulant glare.

 _“No don’t come looking for us!”_ Martin might have cried had he not been keeping his voice low; that was enough to reignite the shards of suspicion in her guts, and she refused to let the matter lie, even though she wasn’t going to go and hunt him down if he wasn’t going to tell her what was happening.

“Tell me what you’re hiding and I won’t have to.” Deborah told him, smirking as she imagined Martin wincing and flushing in panic; she lifted a stray pen and twirled it between her fingers, waiting for the squeaked response.

 _“No_ , _I’m not hiding anything_!” Martin yelped sternly.

“The thing is Martin, I think that you are,” Deborah stated plainly, relishing the knowledge that he was suffering mentally from her blanket refusal to accept his terms; that would show him for trying to lie to her, “so I’m going to come and find out what it is.”

 “ _Look_! _Just stay exactly where you are…”_ Martin ordered, becoming more frustrated, his heavy breathing audible through the speakers of his phone.

“I don’t think I will.” Deborah teased, getting just a little more comfortable in her seat, returning her feet to their perch atop her desk, “I think I’m going to get up and have a nosey around the airfield until I find you.”

 _“No, no – just stay in the Porta-Cabin!”_ Martin instructed frantically, oblivious to her playful tone.

“There’s no use snapping at me, I know that you’re lying to me about something, and I want to know what.” Deborah replied reasonably, offering him a chance to come clean; after all that they had been through together there was no need to lie to her about whatever trouble he had got himself into.

“ _I’m not…”_ Martin groaned, but Deborah wouldn’t listen.

“Yes you are, I can tell.” She stressed, pressing the phone a little tighter against her ear as if that might help Martin to feel her insistence, “I’ll see you in a minute, once I’ve hunted down your big secret.”

 _“Stop!”_  Martin snapped, taking a deep breath that rattled through the phone before he continued in a more measured tone, as if he were trying to placate her and talk her around, “ _Stop what you’re doing and sit down, don’t even move…we’re coming to you.”_

“I don’t want to sit here and wait Martin, I want to see what the two of you are doing.” Deborah sighed, dropping the pen that she was twirling onto her desk and letting her shoulders sag; the chances were if Martin and Arthur came back they would leave whatever they were keeping from her behind, and she was rather curious as to what it was.

 _“No, I said we’re coming to you...”_ Martin repeated, and this time the already exhausted desperation was evident in the slight whine that had crept into his voice.

“Oh, fine,” Deborah agreed with an exaggerated sigh, finishing far more benignly that she had planned, but unable to make herself be truly upset at them for excluding her so blatantly, “but make it quick.”

 _“I’ll see you in a minute.”_ Martin replied, lowering his voice into a fond but exasperated hum; with that the dial tone replaced the intermittent crackling, and Deborah lowered the phone, letting her eyes trace over the contacts list for the sake of something to do while she dutifully awaited their return.

When Martin and Arthur _did_ return, she almost wished that they _had_ left their discovery where they had found it; if anything had been destined to fray her nerves and set her heart pounding in her ears, it was the appearance of another Martin, another Arthur, and what was apparently, a male version of _her_.

oOoOoOo

It barely took any time at all for Deborah to decide that Douglas was in fact _her_. He may have been male, and a bit older than her, but there was something so undeniably familiar about everything about him that made her accept that they at the very least possessed something akin to the same soul, if such things existed; given that she had been forced to believe in the men from another universe, souls were the least of Deborah’s worries.

The Second-Martin and Second-Arthur seemed to be exactly the same, from the roots of their hair to their ingrained quirks; true, their behaviour was just a fraction out of sync, noticeably so, but she supposed that that was to be expected when the third member of their group was inexorably askew due to circumstance.

But Deborah still couldn’t shake the feeling that Douglas was _her_ ; the way he spoke matched hers, the shifting lights in his eyes seemed to mirror her own emotional wash, and even the way that he reacted to the conundrum around them was like a fractured reflection of how she might have reacted in the same situation. That, and the way that he would move to shift closer to Second-Martin, almost without realising, his eyes flickering down to check what the man was doing, and the cautious way that he glanced around their porta-cabin, was all the convincing that Deborah needed.

And she couldn’t keep her eyes from him, as if staring at the greying hair and the greater wrinkles on his face that was eerily similar to hers, and the slightly stauncher build, might allow some sort of tome to open up and give her all the answers that were swimming through her head.

Douglas was doing the same, she could tell; he was scared, obviously he was scared, but there was something else, a rabid curiosity that kept drawing his eyes to her, though he remained close to his Second-Arthur and Second-Martin.

Douglas was a man, but he was in the exact same place as Deborah; she could just shove that in the face of everyone who said that she couldn’t be just as good as any man, if only she had the power. Deborah only fleetingly cherished that before she was doubting herself; she had had a hard time getting where she was…what if Douglas had had an easy ride. But then again, he was at his own MJN, so he can’t have had an easy ride…

Deborah needed to know, to see whether Douglas’ life was better, to see if she could have been happier if her soul had merely chosen an earlier, more masculine model to settle down in.

But she couldn’t let Martin know that she was thinking such things; they may have been getting close, and she may have trusted him like no one else, but she couldn’t let him know that she was thinking things like that, not until she was sure of the conclusion. Deborah began planning a way to talk to Douglas alone from the moment that Carolyn’s phone rang in the other room, and when she returned, she had it fully formed.

It wouldn’t matter that Douglas heard her innermost doubts. He was her after all, and she could tell that he was thinking something similar as he glared petulantly at her little pieces of home décor around the porta-cabin, and at her badly organised desk.

So Deborah convinced Douglas to accompany her to his plane, and the two of them were alone, wearing facades of cheer when in reality both were nervous at what they might discover.

“Well, I agree,” Deborah remarked as she clambered by Douglas’ side down from the inside of his GERTI; every now and then he would jerk as if to catch her in an act of gentlemanly valour, but he never did, as if he could tell that she wouldn’t appreciate it, and was capable of such a feat on her own; if his upbringing was anything like hers, then he _knew_ that she was capable, “and I’m definitely not touching that machine until tomorrow when we’re all there to make sure that nothing goes wrong.”

“You mean, if you get thrown into another universe by accident, you’re sure as hell dragging your Martin and Arthur with you.” Douglas remarked, quirking a knowing eyebrow at her, and smirking as he heaved himself onto the ground, one hand lingering on the plane’s side in what could have been affection or a desperate need to comfort.

“Exactly,” Deborah drawled, glad to be back in the open air after the harrowing sight of their charred flight-deck; when she turned back to face Douglas, it was to find that he was running his eyes over the plane’s dented and mangled exterior with a sort of muted horror, definitely in need of a distraction, “So, tell me about yourself. What does it take to make a perfect Douglas Richardson?”

“That depends what you mean.” Douglas muttered, turning away from the plane and slipping his hands into his pockets, frowning as he looked about his feet at the churned up dirt; it was a dreary sight.

“Start with your family.” Deborah suggested, folding stepping forwards to pluck a shard of metal from the ground, inspecting it carelessly between her hands and then dropping over her shoulder when it proved to be unimportant; she met Douglas’ gaze and began treading slowly around the plane, pleased when he mirrored her pace, “I’m going to guess that both sets of grandparents were in the RAF, and that your parents raised you in Oxford, down the street with the church and the off-licence at either end.”

“Precisely.” Douglas replied with a wry smirk that curled up the corner of his lips, and his eyes glazed ever so slightly as he kicked at the debris that Deborah abandoned, following a foot or two behind her as she made her backwards journey, “Dad always said I spent too much time down the wrong end of that street.”

“And I imagine he was very eager to analyse your every career move to make sure you weren’t just throwing your life away further?” Deborah continued, swallowing down the clump of miserable nostalgia that threatened to clamber into her throat.

“Oh yes,” Douglas chuckled sardonically, sighing and shrugging his shoulders in a ‘what can you do’ sort of movement, “He was very confused as to why I chose to study medicine.”

“I remember my Dad telling me that I would do badly as a doctor.” Deborah remarked, unable to stop a small smile from bubbling onto her lips as she stepped over a particularly steep ridge of mud, “He was always very supportive, but he said, I remember this, he said ‘ _Debbie, I know you’re very good at basic first aid, but honestly dear, you’d let the patients bleed to death before you went near them with a scalpel’”_ She trailed off, glancing down at the ground before inhaling sharply and bringing her hands together winking a Douglas, “Funnily enough, I had much the same realisation about two months into my studies, so I quit.”

“Hmmm, yes, I can’t say I was too keen on the gloopier aspects of medicine either.” Douglas assured her, catching a lump of shrapnel that Deborah lobbed over her shoulder and inspecting it down his nose before doing the same, letting it splodge onto the ground beside him.

Deborah nodded, and sighed again, making sure to keep moving; she didn’t want to stand still for too long, lest she blurt out all the things that she was thinking desperately and scare him away.

“Do you have a brother?” she inquired, tilting her head to the side and folding her arms over her chest; Douglas’ eyebrows rose, as if he were still surprised by the likenesses between their lives.

“Yes, I do.” Douglas remarked brightly, wandering to her side and turning, so that he could look out across the airfield, his forehead furrowing with the inevitable stress of his situation, “Archie’s only a year and a half older than me, so as you can imagine we were never terribly close…competitiveness and all.”

“See, it’s the opposite with me,” Deborah interjected, blinking up at him, a subtle grin crawling onto her lips as Douglas shot her a sideways glance and a wry raised eyebrow, “I’ve never been close to _my_ Archie because the age gap’s so _large_. How old is yours?”

“He’s nearly fifty nine, the bugger.” Douglas answered, smirking and letting his gaze wander back into the middle distance, as if he were revisiting images that only existed in his own mind.

“So is mine.” Deborah corroborated, somewhat pleased to know that even Douglas’ world had some sticking points; then a flash of inspiration struck, and she might have even gasped, eyes widening, “Maybe that’s it.”

“What’s what?” Douglas retorted, folding his arms and stepping back to lean against the plane’s outer shell, folding one ankle over the other, “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Well, Archie’s the same age in both of our lives, so our universes must have been the same up until that point.” Deborah explained, hands gesturing faintly through the air; she continued when she was sure that Douglas was listening, eyes narrowed as he nodded and followed her motions, “So if we agree that you and I are effectively the same soul, if such things exist, then perhaps souls just attach themselves to families and wait for the right opportunity.” She shrugged unabashedly, taking a deep breath, “You’re older, and so near to your Archie that maybe you worked on the first attempt. But me…I’m came far, far later, after literally dozens of miscarriages; maybe our soul just waited for me to work?”

“So what you’re saying is that our soul, and by that logic souls in general, pick a family, and then wait for a functioning model to inhabit?” Douglas verified, sighing and pursing his lips in thought; Deborah waited for his expression to soften and for him to turn his head back to hers, “I suppose that that makes sense…it explains how we could be the same and yet completely different genders…and ages…how old _are_ you?”

Deborah merely shook her head and tapped her finger against her nose, winking salaciously; she wasn’t about to tell him how old she was. Only Carolyn knew that, and that was only because she had demanded a copy of her passport when she employed her.

“No, really, how long did they keep trying for another child?” Douglas insisted, his face lightening with genuine devious interest for the first time since Deborah had laid eyes on him; she shook her head again, “If they started after Archie was born…five years?...ten?... _twenty?”_ Douglas’ eyes widened in wondrous shock, “They didn’t keep trying for _twenty years?”_

“I’m not thirty nine, no.” Deborah gave in, allowed him a little leeway with a small sigh, “But they did keep trying for a very long time. They really wanted that second child; you should feel extremely proud of the fact you worked first time.”

“Forty five?” Douglas continued to press, ignoring her suggestion; Deborah rolled her eyes and made a gesture through the air, pushing her hand downwards, making Douglas’ expression grow only more determined, “So somewhere between forty and forty five?” he whistled through his teeth, “I knew my parents were stubborn bastards, but this is a whole new playing field.”

Deborah chuckled softly, but didn’t reply; instead she turned slowly and began once again stepping lightly over the rubbly ground, inspecting the damaged plane and listening for Douglas’ steps behind her. Now that was out of the way, and he was feeling more comfortable all round, she knew what came next.

The questions that she really wanted answering, the ones that mattered; birth and family couldn’t be changed, they came as they came, but marriages, careers, they could be drastically different based on…not even who you were, just who people perceived you to be.

But she would let Douglas ask those questions. Let him be the one to delve into those murky waters, and then she would turn it back to her own ends and find out what she needed.

oOoOoOo

After a long day keeping a parallel crew hidden, and pretending to work when really all she was doing was keeping Arthur from rushing off to have fun with his double, and Martin from having a mental break-down over the unauthorised doppelgangers, Deborah was relieved that she had sent Douglas and his crew off on their own. They would be nice and safe tucked away in her flat.

It had been such a long day that she had given in to her impulses and told Martin everything; having him hold her hand and tell her everything was fine was like a weight from her chest. And then he had offered to take her out for dinner, though chips could hardly be called fine dining, and though she had known that the fluttering moths in her chest and the tension between them was aflame, she hadn’t the energy to refuse.

Given all that had happened, there was nothing wrong with pretending just for one night that they didn’t have to stay just friends; Deborah told herself that it was okay to relax and let herself enjoy his company.

Nothing would happen between her and Martin…and yet, he had been looking at her the same way that he had been the last time that ‘nothing had happened’. Both of them were fully aware of the attraction between them, and both flirted shamelessly, as a game, as friends did.

Except tonight Deborah felt dangerously close to just ploughing straight on and forgetting their agreement that things were better off uncomplicated, and forgetting that she was happy being in love with him from a distance…and if she didn’t know better, Martin was acting far more comfortably than he had been, even more so than when they were being deliberately ‘friendly’.

The only thing that she could think of to explain it, and Deborah spent a long time on the park bench, watching Martin as they shared their cheap meal, wondering why tonight of all nights her resolve was crumbling, was that the other crew didn’t have _this_.

Douglas and Second-Martin didn’t look at each other like this, and there was none of the closeness between them, physical or emotional. But she and Martin _did_ have that…why waste that when others weren’t so lucky?

But Deborah couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t, because keeping Martin was a lot more important that risking everything.

As the two of them left rose from the park bench that they had found a short walk away from the chip shop, they strolled side by side back to where they had left Martin’s van; Deborah hugged her coat closed with her arms over her chest, elbow bumping Martin’s.

“So what did you tell the other Martin?” Deborah inquired, trying to reignite the conversation that had been somewhat dwindling between them; in the light provided only by the street lamps, it was hard to see much other that than the angular lines of Martin’s face exaggerated from the shadows, and a light flush from exhaustion.

“Oh, lots of things, mostly about us...” Martin answered sheepishly, shrugging with his hands in his pockets and glancing down at her, his eyes particularly blue in the semi-darkness, “I um, I left out the...stuff...between us.”

“That was a good idea.” Deborah reassured him, nudging him slightly as they walked and smiling needlessly up at him when he retaliated; this was good, “I didn't mention it to Douglas, I thought it might worry him.”

“Me too.” Martin agreed, nodding hastily and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, “I almost told the other me about how we, uh, we kissed...after the trip to Ottery St Mary, but I realised and said that you made it up to me with a cooked meal.”

“Oh, you scoundrel.” Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes fondly; the wind gusted in that moment, and she had to push her hair behind her ears to be able to look properly at Martin, whose eyes followed the motion, “I suppose it's for the best - I think the idea of there being anything between them might scar them.”

“Hmmm...they’re all so jumpy,” Martin noted, sighing; then he shot her a conspiratorial glance and said cheekily, “And suspicious…if they knew we were doing _this_ they might think this was a date.”

“Isn't it?” Deborah shot back, feigning innocence and batting her eyelashes at him; the flustering in her chest wrestled and confused with itself, but she ignored it, smirking at Martin’s expression.

“Um, well, um, it wasn't meant to be…” Martin stuttered guiltily, his cheeks flaming red as he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, biting particularly awkwardly at his bottom lip.

“Martin, I'm teasing.” Deborah said firmly, holding his gaze when he tried to look away in embarrassment; Martin blushed and nodded, rolling his eyes at himself, but Deborah couldn’t help but follow the odd little paths that her mind was taking her; she was ever the risk taker after all, and Martin already knew what was bothering her, so she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, “Would you still like me if I were male?”

“Of course I would, you're my friend!” Martin replied, sounding almost affronted at the very idea; then his lips curled into a wicked smirk, and his nudged his elbow against Deborah’s as they walked, “I mean, don't get me wrong, there's a lot about you aesthetically that I like that you wouldn't have if you were male,” then to Deborah’s amusement he seemed to realise what he was saying, and his eyes widened in terror, “not that that's a major deciding point-”

“You know, you don't have to be so careful around me,” Deborah interjected, pressing her lips together and glancing down at the cobbles disappearing beneath her feet when Martin glanced sharply towards her, the lines on his face softening, “you haven't been recently, but I reckon having the other lot around has knocked you off kilter.”

“Define careful.” Martin said slowly, pausing in his stride; Deborah came to a halt and turned slightly to face him, peripherally aware that they were in the middle of what constituted as Fitton’s high-street, but far more focused on the intensely tentative shine in Martin’s eyes as they bored into hers.

“I'm talking about how desperate you've been to assure me that you're just feeling'… friendshippy' towards me.” Deborah explained, shrugging against her folded arms, and feeling like the shivers crawling from her chest to her throat were telling her to duck her head and not make eye contact for too long.

“I just want to make absolutely sure,” Martin replied slowly, the shake gone from his stance, though he kept his hands in his pockets and gazed seriously down at her, eyebrows dipped in the middle, “so that I don't make you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn't make me uncomfortable…” Deborah said quickly, eyes widening with the importance of that statement as her shoulders fell back and she met his gaze head on; the very last thing it made her was uncomfortable, in fact, she wanted more…not that she’d ever tell him that.

“Well, hey,” Martin remarked nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders and kicking his toe lightly against a loose cobble, smiling weakly against whatever he thought was going on, “I'm not the only one being bothered by the other lot, am I?”

Deborah couldn’t chuckle with him, and the sound died when he saw that she was looking around them without really seeing their surroundings, sighing helplessly.

“It's just...there's stuff between us that they don't seem to have...” she stressed quietly, blinking sadly up at Martin without a trace of deception; she unfolded one hand to gesture through the limited air between them, “things...you know, emotional things…”

“I know...” Martin muttered, pursing his lips and frowning, but tracing his eyes over Deborah’s face; this close, she could have sworn that she could feel its heat scorching across her cheeks, “It doesn't take much to see that Douglas and the Other me don't feel the same way about each other as we do.”

“And how do we feel about each other?” Deborah asked, inwardly cursing herself for her inability to stop pushing, to just leave things alone; she watched Martin’s face twist with nerves, his nose scrunch and his eyes dart here and there about her person.

“Well, I um…I just…” Martin didn’t quite splutter, but he couldn’t grasp the correct words either, and his hand turned little circles in the air beside him as he swallowed hard and bit down on his bottom lip; Deborah regretted her outburst immediately.

“I'm sorry, you're right. I'm sure that they're friends...but, it's different with us.” Deborah amended hastily, adopting the jovial tone of flippancy and wrapping her arms all the more tightly around her chest, fighting the reflexive tremble of her own lips as she smiled stiffly, “We're friends, and I care about you...” the way that Martin looked at her then, the air between them seemed infinitesimal, and the moths in her chest stood to attention, forcing a lie away from her lips, and Deborah could only acknowledge what she had been silent about, like dipping her toe into an acidic lake, “but there's other things there that we're both aware of...certain things...”

“I know, Deborah,” Martin cut her off, sounding almost comforting yet simultaneously affectionate and scared, though his smile flickered sardonically and he seemed to lean in, his eyes fixed on hers until she could barely stand to look, or to look away, “It's okay, I know”

“What do you know?” Deborah replied, her voice almost a whisper; she could feel her breathing increase, her lungs beginning to shudder as she wetted her lips and tilted her head back to hold Martin’s gaze, gripping the fabric at her elbows.

It was like her mind had frozen momentarily, and although she knew exactly what Martin meant, there was nothing else he could be talking about, she didn’t want to acknowledge it, to shatter the precarious balance that they had engineered between them; it had taken so long to get where they were, the idea of changing that physically hurt.

“I...I know how you feel...” Martin explained, then swallowed sharply, taking in a shuddering breath and wringing his hands in his pockets, dragging one up to rub anxiously across his face; now his eyes weren’t boring into hers, they were flying here there and everywhere in order to avoid hers at all costs,  “…about me.”

“Have you been talking to Arthur?” Deborah demanded; it was the first thing that popped into her head, and even as she said it, rising up indignantly at the invasion of privacy, shoulders squared, she wanted to back down even though she couldn’t, because she absolutely couldn’t admit outright that Martin was completely and utterly correct about how she felt. Let him come to his own conclusions and she would never have to say a word; whatever happened wouldn’t be her fault.

“Yes, but I knew anyway...” Martin reasoned, wincing slightly at his own wording when Deborah raised an eyebrow in disbelief; he practically gnawed at his bottom lip, and his cheeks were scarlet as he rocked on his heels, “He told me that you've got feelings for me, good feelings, but that you were...confused, and that you have no idea what you actually want - ”  he exhaled sharply, hopelessly, pointing his finger in an attempt to regain his captainly stance, “But you mustn't get mad at him! I knew anyway.”

“How could you possibly know that anyway?” Deborah demanded, shaking her head until she nearly pressed her eyes closed with the effort, trying to straighten out the whirring in her head; when she looked back to Martin, he was still again, looking down at her with the soppy little smile that he always matched with a cock of his head and glistening eyes.

“Because I know you.” Martin said simply, as if that were truly enough of an answer, enough to make everything fine and dandy between them; Deborah just gaped, scowling expectantly and trying to stop her eyes from watering at how touched she was by such an innocuous statement, “And I can tell when you're happy, or when you're staring at me, and it doesn't take a genius to notice that you care, or that you've been going out of your way to spend time with me, or look out for me, like getting me extra cash or my favourite coffee.”

“If you noticed all of that, why didn't you say anything?” Deborah asked quietly, hoping that she didn’t sound as bitter as she thought she did; it hadn’t quite sunk in yet, that they were actually discussing this, talking about how she felt about him, truly felt about, and the moths in her chest were still frozen, screaming up images of millions of moments, the end of the day after a long van trip, “You turned down a perfect opportunity a while ago.”

“Because you're confused, and you pull away whenever we get too close...” Martin explained, his voice returning to its usual reedy tenacity as he shrugged as it were no big deal, gazing imploringly down at her, “It's like I was saying to Arthur-”

“Why were you talking to Arthur about this, I told him not to-” Deborah snapped, turning away from him to glare at the edge of the pavement, pressing her lips into a thin line; Martin was wrong, she wasn’t confused anymore, she was bloody terrified of the implications of what he was saying, about what he knew, and anger was better than misery any day.

“He didn't mean to - ” Martin insisted, but Deborah wasn’t ready to listen to his excuses; he couldn’t just pull the rug out from under her feet and expect her to be okay with that.

“Then why did he?” Deborah cut him off, inhaling sharply and wrapping her arms around her chest once again, pouting her lips and glaring into Martin’s eyes; she was highly aware of how close she was to toppling into either tears or fury; that was how distressed she was.

Martin groaned, and rolled his eyes, and Deborah had to stop herself from scoffing in indignation as he threw his hands into the air either side of him; a man on the other side of the street paused, but Deborah barely noticed him, and he moved on without interrupting.

“Because, he was being miserable because he didn't understand why the girl from he library didn't understand why he liked her so much, so I explained to him how sometimes people just can't process why other people like them, and then he asked me how I would know that...” Martin reeled off at a charged, frustrated pace, his cheeks red from exertion now, as his jaw set and his limbs seemed to droop, and he let his eyes drop down to Deborah’s as he continued, exhausted, “and so I...I told him I knew...because I love you…”

The rest of the world vanished for a moment, and Deborah could barely process the words that had just left Martin’s mouth.

“You what?” she asked weakly, tracing her eyes over his face, just in case she had heard wrong. His cheeks were red, his expression was sheepish, but otherwise, he was wearing that look of steely determination that always spelled trouble.

“I told him that I knew how he felt, because I love you.” Martin repeated, his hands clenching at his sides as if he were steadying himself; Deborah took in a shaky breath, and opened and closed her mouth, unable to say a word.

It occurred to her only then, that for all they had mentioned how _she_ felt, this was the first time all night that Martin had mentioned how _he_ felt; it was the first time that she had actually considered it as a possibility (and what did that say about her self-esteem?).

Carefully, cautiously, Deborah blinked hard and swallowed, letting her arms slip down from her chest to hang at her front, fingers intertwining as she stepped forwards, tilting her head back to look Martin in the eyes, as he watched, frozen as if with the same fear.

“Why would you tell him that?” she asked quietly, wetting her lips again as her eye were drawn to his; Deborah didn’t know if she dared believe, it seemed too good to be true.

“Because it's true...” Martin stated decisively; he made sure to look her straight in the eye, never wavering, and it felt like the breath in her lungs had turned to stone, sealing the moths inside to struggle futilely, “I love you.”

“Hold on, hold on….why are you telling Arthur that?” Deborah spoke immediately, lest the words linger any longer in her mind, lest they get ingrained when now they were merely turning lazy circles, getting cosy; she raised her hands in surrender, creating a physical if not flimsy barrier between them as Martin moved forwards as if to comfort her, “If that were true, why haven't you said something to me? Perhaps when I offered to spend the night with you, for instance?”

“Because you're having enough trouble trying to work out your own feelings!” Martin exclaimed, trying to make her understand, she knew, as she watched him ache to reach across the small gulf and place his hands on her arms, “You don't need mine to worry about as well!”

“But we're friends.” Deborah remarked dumbly; that was the only argument that she had left.

“Yes, of course we are! Friendship isn't just a means to an end!” Martin insisted; he rocked back on his heels and shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, “I like being your friend, and I wasn't going to make that awkward by pushing you when you're not even sure what you want.”

“Stop, Martin, just stop!” Deborah snapped weakly, her voice trailing off as she raised her hands again, but didn’t step away, “I need a minute to think…”

Martin fell silent, and nodded, teeth digging into his lip, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. Deborah squeezed her eyes shut, relishing the peace the darkness brought even as her arms began to ache were she held them aloft, keeping her grounded.

She wanted so much for it to be true, for Martin to want her like that. But Deborah couldn’t just accept his word and let it be, she just couldn’t.

Deborah had watched three long term relationships crumble around her, and those men had walked out of her life and stayed away, and she barely missed them. But Martin, _Martin_ …she couldn’t bear to have that happen to him, she didn’t think she could cope if she lost him, even if he loved her now, or knew that she loved him, _so much_ , it might fall apart, and she just couldn’t do that with him, not with him.

But she wanted him so much it hurt.

“Are you alright?” Martin’s voice, concerned and tentative breached the whirring tempest in her head, and Deborah’s eyes snapped open, to fine him standing closer, blinking worriedly down at her.

“Alright?” Deborah repeated, regaining some sense of indignation; she pulled herself up to her full height and stared him down, though her voice wavered in despair, “In the last five minutes you've told me that you love me, that I have feelings for you, but that I don't know what they are because I'm confused, that I'm scared of being loved because I don't understand why anyone would, and that I don't think I could ever be happy-”

“I didn't say anything about being happy.” Martin interjected, his forehead crinkling in confusion; when Deborah said nothing, but merely looked away, at the grim edge of the road, he reached one hand across the small gap between them to brush his knuckles against her upper arm, “Are you unhappy?”

“I...”  Deborah opened and closed her mouth, caught off guard; there was no reason that it should be so hard to meet Martin’s gaze, but now they were treading into murky territory, and she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to see that, “not always...I was around my last divorce, but…”

“Because I've not noticed you being unhappy.” Martin cut in, and one syllable was enough to tell Deborah that he was shifting back into his harried, overly nervous state, expression stiffening as his eyes flickered over her face, searching for any sign that he might have been doing something wrong. That alone was enough to make her realise that honesty was the only thing that could prevent them from shattering into a pile of uncomfortable and awkward shards in the middle of the high-street.

“That's because I'm not when I'm spending time with you…” Deborah explained, raising her hand to place the tips of her fingers under Martin’s chin and turn his head back towards her, “I, I just, we have fun.”

“Yeah...we do.” Martin acknowledged; then his face did something odd, that Deborah assumed was an attempt to stave off a frown as he shifted his chin from her light grasp, “Is that it then? I distract you from being unhappy?”

“No, you _make_ me happy.” Deborah insisted, grasping at his sleeve instead; to her relief, she wasn’t shaken off, and Martin’s eyes met hers, the emotion trapped inside them enough to help ignite the moths in her chest again, “Because I like being with you...and I like you.”

“Oh...well...the feeling's mutual.” Martin murmured, clearing his throat awkwardly; he let out what could have been a stilted chuckle, and Deborah couldn’t help but step forwards just a fraction, still pressing his sleeve between her fingers, “I’m still not sure what you want though.”

“No, I do. I have done for a while.” Deborah assured him, her voice dropping as she ran her eyes over his face, letting them linger over his lips; she dared to hope, just for a moment, as she felt his hand shifting from beneath his sleeve to worm its way into hers, curling delicately around her fingers, a warm, wonderful sensation, “Do you really love me?”

“Yes...definitely...you're…Deborah…you’re perfect.” Martin exclaimed on a breath, leaning back to inspect her expression as if he couldn’t believe what she was asking; Deborah swore that she didn’t feel herself blush under the scrutiny, “I mean, I know you’re not, but that’s pretty perfect, being able to look like you are when you’re not, even though you sort of are because you’re not…sorry, that got all muddled.”

He raised his free hand to curl in front of his mouth, hiding his embarrassment, though he didn’t make any effort to move away; the motion was so Martin, so beautifully normal in the midst of such madness, that Deborah thought she felt her heart drop all over again.

“Martin...um...the feeling's probably mutual.” She remarked, hushed, as if saying it too loud might break the sanctity of the admission; wetting her lips, and dragging her eyes over his, Deborah met Martin’s gaze confidently, challenging the worry in her chest.

“Oh...” Martin’s eyes widened, and he looked more shocked than she had ever seen him in his life; gulping, he pointed his finger between the two of them, attempting a wavering smile, “so you wouldn't mind if I?”

“Go ahead…” Deborah drawled, or tried to drawl; she was too busy focusing on the way Martin’s eyes darted to her own lips, and his posture became more confident as if someone had flipped a switch.

Before she could react, or fully beam at the motion, Martin had lurched forwards and pressed his lips to hers as if it were the last thing he would ever do, tilting their heads and crashing into kiss after kiss, until it became hard to smile, and each one merged into the next, all caught up in the rush of heat in Deborah’s chest as the moths caught fire and forced her into action.

She could barely concentrate on where his arms were, wrapped around her back, holding her tightly, gripping her as if she might disappear, another hand pushing gently through her hair, urgently against her cheek, anything to pull more in, pull her closer, bring them together and just keep them there, lips parting and making way for tongues, and when Martin broke away for air Deborah was fast on his tail, curling her hands into his coat, kissing him again and again, eyes closed, just wanting to never ever stop.

And they kept going, and Deborah couldn’t remember feeling so perfect as she did then, with Martin holding her so tightly, so protectively, but barely pressing them together even though she tried with all her might to be as close to him as possible, cherishing the sensation of his mouth against hers, keening and holding on for dear life.

They had no choice but to stop, to breathe, chests heaving only inches from the other, hands curled and hooked around each other; Martin’s arms were around Deborah, holding her close, securely, one hand stroking past her ear as their foreheads very nearly pressed together, and they struggled to keep their eyes open rather than blink dumbly

“I've changed my mind.” Deborah murmured, hearing her voice shaking with exertion; their noses brushed as she lifted her head to meet Martin’s eyes.

“Oh?” he replied, voice low and warm; his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his eyebrows danced peculiarly in response, too pleased to be truly confused.

“Yes, very much so...” Deborah continued; she lifted a hand away from his shoulder, untangling her fingers from the creases in his coat, “This, I want this, this makes me very happy.”

Martin chuckled, the sort of chuckle that rose from his guts, and let his forehead fall against hers, as his fingers twirled around her loose hair and tickled her cheek.

“Me too.” He remarked, nodding stiltedly.

Then they were kissing again, with no intention of stopping; if the local police officer hadn’t given Martin a tap on the shoulder, they might not have stopped for a while.

oOoOoOo

The next day passed in a blur, and even though Deborah would remember it for the rest of her life, she barely experienced it as it happened.

When she woke, she remembered that there was a Douglas asleep on her chair in the sitting room, and had gone about readying breakfast. Then, somehow, Douglas had managed to convince her to spill everything she had never told anyone, including how much she loved Martin; after that, there could be no doubt at all that she really, really did love Martin, and showed him as much when he turned up an hour later.

And then on the way to the airfield, with and Arthur and a Martin that weren’t hers, she had gone under interrogation again; it had taken all her power not to just tell them that they were so obviously meant for each other. If Douglas and Second-Martin were anything like her and her Martin, then they would need to figure that out for themselves.

“Do you really love the other me?” Second-Martin had asked, slumped with an irritable anxiousness in the passenger seat of her Lexus, peering at her over folded arms in a way that Deborah hadn’t seen from her Martin in months, “Douglas said that you did.”

“Yes, I do.” Deborah had answered him simply, only to have him demand why, as if it were the most important thing in the world, “because he makes me happy.” She had told him, as if that were the whole story.

Perhaps it was.

The machine inside their plane was elegant yet clunky, and when the afternoon rolled in, and they were packing the other crew onto their mysteriously healing plane, Deborah felt a pang of guilt; what if they never made it home?

But Martin stayed by her side the entire time, and assured her that nothing could go wrong. It was forced optimism, but it helped somewhat.

Deborah had made sure to give Douglas a lingering hug, something to hang onto, to make sure that he didn’t feel quite so alone in the world, she wasn’t sure. But she would miss him, even though he hadn’t been there for long. It had been nice, having someone to talk to, feeling like she wasn’t alone in the world.

She hoped for his sake that he turned out happy, hopefully with his Martin; Deborah had no idea whose life was better, probably neither, but it had occurred to her that for all his fuss, for all his fears over parallel universes and strange potential romances with his Captain, Douglas had been just as eager to see if there was a way for someone like him to be happy as she had been.

So she made sure to tell him, to hint in the right direction, to whisper in his Martin’s ear, and hope that when they got home, he’d be happy too.

And then they were gone, and Martin called it a day, let Arthur go home, and declared that what he needed was a good night’s sleep.

The two of them paused between their vehicles, like they had so many times before; but this time was different.

“I’m not really sure how to end a day like that.” Martin remarked, his voice strained as he smiled helplessly, passing his keys from hand to hand, leaning back against his van.

Deborah watched the motion, and decided to take a chance; she rather figured that it was allowed now that everything was out in the open, and the day’s excitement had driven away any chance of true shock.

“You could come back to mine.” She offered, letting her hands hang, joined at her front as she shrugged and smiled hopefully across the gap; at Martin’s tentative, almost nervous squint, she pushed on, “Not for anything drastic – we haven’t really discussed what we’re doing yet…and I don’t think we’re in much of a position to given how tired and stressed we are after the events of today. I just thought perhaps…we could watch some telle…cuddle on the sofa…”

Martin let out a laugh, then a chuckle, and before she knew it, he was laughing, red cheeks, his eyes close to watering with what must have been hysterical nerves held in for hours.

“Cuddle?” he repeated, placing a hand over his chest; he swallowed hard, and then nodded, pressing his lips together tightly, and Deborah saw with a tugging sensation in her chest, that yes, he was close to relieved tears, “You know what? I would give anything just to cuddle and forget all the terrifying, weird stuff that just happened.”

Without a word, Deborah opened her arms, and stepped forwards, meeting Martin in the space between the vehicles and letting herself get wrapped in a warm, frantic embrace.

She supposed that, mental scarring as a result of terrible science-fiction trope aside, at least something good had come out of the last few days.

Martin’s resolve hadn’t wavered since last night, and Deborah wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass; it was out in the open now how they felt about each other…even if things didn’t run smoothly, they could try at least.

Cuddles in the middle of the air-field were a good start.


	31. Interlude 11

**Interlude 11**

Lying in a bed in a hotel near the airport in Ohio, Deborah curled onto her side beneath the covers, and looked through the pale light of morning at the room’s other twin bed; Martin was snoring faintly, and she knew that she should try to catch another hour or two of sleep before he was up with the sun, but couldn’t manage it.

She had plans for the day that she hadn’t mentioned to him, but Deborah knew that he would love it; that in itself was nerve-wracking. It had been two weeks since she and Martin had decided to have a go at stepping beyond friendship and into the murkier waters of romantic relationships, but they had yet to go on anything resembling a date…Deborah was going to rectify that.

It wasn’t that they had been avoiding each other, quite the contrary; they had slipped quite easily into a pattern of small pecks on the cheek and the ability to say how they were feeling, and had spent just as much time in each other’s company as they had before. The only difference was that there was now a peripheral awareness of what they were doing underlying every conversation.

That first night, when the other versions of them were packed off home, and Deborah had invited Martin back to hers, they really had just cuddled up on the sofa; so much had happened, and so many nerves were frayed, that anything else would have been ridiculous.

They hadn’t talked at first, but neither of them had had the energy. Whilst Deborah had gone about making coffee for the two of them, and finding her regular soap opera on the television, for something to distract them more than actual interest, Martin had slumped into the corner of her sofa, hands rubbing over his face as the exhaustion washed over him.

Then when Deborah had come to sit beside him, that slowly shifted into a comfortable embrace, with Martin kicking his legs up onto the sofa while she slid across to settle in front of him, her back against his chest, slouched down enough that he could rest his chin on her shoulder, his arms winding around her waist like a drowning man gripping a life raft as her own arms rested atop them, fingers curling into his sleeves.

It had been odd at first, but after a while Martin relaxed into her, and Deborah was more content than she had been in…well, years; Martin would ask in murmurs what was happening, the intricate plots of the soap opera indecipherable for anyone who might be new to the programme, and the two of them had fun mocking the ridiculousness of it all as Deborah explained that ‘he’ was ‘her’ brother, who had arrived in secret because their mother had put him up for adoption, and now they were both on trial for the murder of someone who had been drugged by their son for sleeping with their employer’s daughter, who happened to be the cousin connecting the whole scheme.

They had barely even kissed. There had been one moment, when Deborah had snuggled backwards a fraction, enjoying the solid weight of Martin curled around her, and she had tipped her head back to run her eyes over his face, her nose brushed against his neck as she turned. Martin had hummed under his breath and tilted his chin downwards, blushing faintly, and placed his lips gently against hers, waiting for her to reach one arm around his and brush her fingers across his cheek before adding any pressure, pulling away with a contented sigh.

It had been unusual, but not awkward, or uncomfortable; it just existed, and Deborah had happily settled against him to continue giving the television screen only a fraction of her attention, focused almost entirely upon how wonderful it felt being allowed to tuck into Martin, and have him hold her back with a warm glow coating his face.

There had been no time to talk about what they were actually doing, as they had fallen asleep there, neither of them willing to move or disturb the fragile balance between them; it wasn’t until early the next morning, when Deborah awoke cocooned in Martin’s arms, head laid against the crook between his neck and shoulder, legs hooked over his, the both of them threatening to roll from the sofa, that the daunting weight of negotiations even dared to peek its nose into the lightness in her head.

The moths in Deborah’s chest pirouetted and threatened to flutter up her throat and escape when she had nudged him gently, and Martin had groaned and grumbled into alertness, his eyebrows rising in surprise when he looked down his nose at their position. Then he had blushed, and a tentative little smile had lifted the corners of his lips as he dragged the bottom one through his teeth, his hands slipping more securely around her back to counter the jolt that she had received when he had tried to sit up.

That had been all it took to make a flush of warmth rush through Deborah’s pores and assure her that everything was alright, and nothing of the previous few days could be regretted; so she had murmured that they needed to talk things through, Martin had agreed, and after a few minutes wandering aimlessly around, rifling through the kitchen for tea, and settling onto the sofa, sitting this time and facing each other, it had been time to work out exactly what they were doing.

“Everything I said before, that still counts.” Martin insisted the moment that Deborah turned to face him, her hands rested in her lap; he was turned towards her, his hands clasped anxiously on his knees, eyes strained as they bored into her face with a sort of jittery determination, “I absolutely meant everything I said about how I feel, and nothing’s changed.”

“Good…” Deborah replied faintly, unable to stop herself from committing to a wavering smile of wonderment before she realised how she must have sounded, “I mean, that’s good, because I feel the same. You know I’m attracted to you, and I wasn’t lying when I said I return your feelings. I think - ”

“I think what we mentioned before – you know, when we were, well, I think that was a good idea,” Martin spluttered, his nerves getting the most of him as he grasped at his knees and gnawed at his lips, becoming more frantic, “I want that – I- I I mean if _you -_ ”

Taking a deep breath, Deborah raised her hands between them and Martin fell silent, clamming up and watching her movements as if his life depended on it; there were so many ways that this could have gone, and Deborah could only do her best to formulate the best result, taking a risk. Shuffling sideways across the sofa, Deborah slipped closer to Martin, until their knees collided softly in the centre.

“Martin, I think that now everything is out in the open, the best thing that we can do now is to wipe everything else from the table, and just say what we want.” Deborah suggested calmly, wetting her lips as she struggled not to stare at the buttons on his shirt instead of his face, “No fussing, or teasing…it’s become very clear that… _things_ are happening between us, and perhaps the most reasonable thing to do is to be completely honest.”

“I want you.” Martin answered immediately, and Deborah had to swallow hard, thrown once more off guard by the rawness of it; then he sniffled and ducked his head, before continuing more shakily, “I mean, I want to be _with_ you, in a-a-a relationship, not as friends, but as, as, well, boyfriends and girlfriends sounds _silly,_ but as partners, in the sense that-”

“Me too.” Deborah interrupted, nodding minutely to compound her statement; once again, Martin fell silent, and his whole posture seemed to take on an airier weight, his shoulders rising as his eyes widened, “I would like to try for a relationship with you. But Martin, it’s not as simple as just saying that.” She sighed, and blinked heavily, glancing away from him, “We’re friends, the best of friends, and although that means we know each other inside out, it also means that if we start something, we need to relearn our relationship from a whole new angle.”

“You mean with dates and romance?” Martin verified, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together, forehead furrowing as if he were studying for an important exam, “Because I _want_ to do all of that.”

“So do I.” Deborah agreed, taking pains to meet his gaze; there were tiny claws in her guts that whispered how carefully she needed to tread, “But you have to understand where I’m coming from. There are huge aspects of our friendship that will transfer across into a romantic relationship perfectly…but there are other aspects that we would need to relearn, like boundaries, and what we are and aren’t allowed to do with each other, what we talk about…”

“I understand that, I really do.” Martin insisted, now trying to smile convincingly, looking across at her with a decisive glint in his eyes that wouldn’t be swayed, “I want to do dates and the romance, and I’m willing to relearn how we work, because…because I love you, and I want to have a go adding that extra element to us…like this…” confidently, but slowly, Martin’s hand crossed the small space between them, and he curled his fingers through Deborah’s, smiling tentatively, making her stomach lurch pleasantly, “I-I love our friendship, I do…but I’d also quite like if we added more this sort of thing.”

He gave her fingers a little squeeze, and Deborah couldn’t help but return the favour, gripping his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers completely; ducking her head down so that a few strands of hair fell over her face, she nodded, and almost didn’t look up to see the sharp intake of breath, or the thrilled flush that overtook Martin’s face as he leant into the movement, seemingly unable to stay too far away.

Deborah wanted this so, so much…but there was still a little niggle of doubt at the back of her mind, infecting the rest of her organs.

“Martin, what if we don’t work like that.” Deborah spoke quickly, staring at their joined hands, almost able to feel the atmosphere become precarious; Martin began to speak, as if to contradict her, but she cut him off, inhaling sharply and snapping her eyes upwards to lock onto his, “Hear me out…our whole relationship is built on our bickering, and most of the time it’s fun, and it’s why we’re friends at all, but every now and then it builds and builds, and no matter how we feel about each other, it ends in a huge argument.” she swallowed and waited for a response, but none came, so she pushed on, “What if, even when padded out with feelings, we still argue like that, and we find out we just don’t function as a couple.”

Martin didn’t answer straight away, but he blinked hard, the pressure on her hand increasing slightly as he stared thoughtfully into thin air; Deborah felt a moment of trepidation before he finally opened his mouth.

“Deborah, I don’t want to start something with you thinking about how it might end…because ideally, I, I’d like us to work…indefinitely…once we’re there, I don’t want to lose it.” He explained, but regardless, his jaw set, and Martin met her gaze determinedly, trying to smile encouragingly, but falling short of the mark, “But you’re right…we fight, we might not work as a couple. However, we _do_ work as friends, even with the fighting, and so there’s no reason we can’t _try_. We could _try_ and be romantic, and relearn how to be around each other, and if it works, then fantastic, I’d love that.” Martin smiled properly that time, shrugging helplessly, and Deborah couldn’t help but feel her spirits lifted by the sight, even as he carried on, “and if it doesn’t work, then never mind, we’re still friends.”

“So what you’re saying…” Deborah replied cautiously, letting the words roll over her tongue as she contemplated the possibilities that they incited, shifting her free hand to rest over their joined ones, her fingers trailing over Martin’s knuckles, “is that if we work as a romantic pairing, then we could keep it going long term, but that if we don’t, then no harm done, because we’ll always have our friendship to fall back on?”

“Yes, exactly!” Martin exclaimed, sounding far too pleased with himself, though Deborah couldn’t find it in herself to care, “But the idea is _not_ to ruin it, so we won’t ever have to fall back on just being friends.”

“Okay.” Answered, unable to do much more that cherish the flood of happiness that washed through her senses, and meet Martin’s hopeful expression with one of her own.

So she bridged the gap between them and pressed a kiss to his lips, their hands still wound together between them, Martin’s free hand rising immediately to card through her hair; then another kiss, and another, each short but sweet, as Martin began to chuckle, a low sound that rippled through his chest.

They didn’t go any further than that, and hadn’t since, and they hadn’t told Carolyn or Arthur what they planned to do; Martin was worried that they might get called out for unprofessional behaviour, so ensured that the closest they got to each other at work were small pecks when no one was looking, too thrilled to keep at a truly professional distance, and Deborah too afraid of what might happen if either of them knew, though she was aware that Arthur was probably waiting for one of them to announce their engagement any day now.

Which was why when Martin’s phone jangled, and he began to grumble and roll onto his back, Deborah was out of bed in a flash, treading lightly to crouch beside his bed, admiring his sleep addled bewilderment in the rays of Ohio sun that crept through the gaps in the ratty blinds.

“What are you doing up?” Martin yawned, bringing a curled hand to thump uselessly against his mouth, even as he smooshed the side of his face into his pillow to face Deborah, eyes flitting lazily across her features as his lips danced into an unconscious smile at the sight of her.

“I’m up, dear Captain, because I have big plans for today.” Deborah announced fondly; committing the sight of his ginger hair ruffled and sticking up at odd angles against his pillow, she stroked the backs of her fingers over his forehead, watching as he smiled and snuffled at the motion, lifting his other hand to connect with hers, but missing, “I’m taking you on a date.”

“What?” Martin jolted upwards, falling back onto the bed before he could hoist himself into a sleepy sitting position, even as Deborah rose to her feet and wandered away to rifle through her case for a suitable outfit for the day, “Wait – surely _I_ should do that, I’m the-”

“That might be true if we lived in the eighteen sixties, but luckily it’s the twenty first century and we women can sweep our men off their feet if we want.” Deborah retorted, smirking at Martin from across the room, “Don’t you want to know where I’m taking you? I chose it on the basis that you’d be thrilled.”

“Oh?” Martin asked, still groggily squinting about the room, but making an effort to hoist himself up and round to face her, “Well, um, that’s…good of you. What have you got planned?”

Deborah grinned, and abandoned her clothes for the sake of stepping swiftly back to the side of his bed and taking his hands in hers, inhaling for dramatic effect as Martin’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

“Martin Crieff,” she declared proudly, “Today, as we don’t have to fly back home until tomorrow, you are accompanying me to the National Museum of the US Air Force, in Dayton.”

oOoOoOo

To say that Martin was thrilled would have been an understatement; to say that he treated even the idea of the date as if it were the second coming of Christ, would have been spot on. Deborah had nearly toppled backwards under the force of Martin slamming into her, his hands gasping at her cheeks as he kissed every inch of her face that he could, lingering determinedly on her lips, murmuring something that she couldn’t quite understand.

When they made their way down to the hotel’s shoddy restaurant, Martin had practically skipped down the stairs, a wide grin on his face that didn’t even fade when they found Carolyn and Arthur sat at a table right in the centre.

“Martin, you look like you’re about to burst into a thousand shiny sprinkles.” Carolyn announced, glancing up from her phone and nodding in a welcoming gesture; Deborah obediently took the seat opposite Arthur, and Martin slipped in beside her, only removing the hand from the back of her seat at the last moment, “Should I assume that Deborah’s the only font of rational conversation today, or are you too far gone to answer even that?”

“Not at all Carolyn, not at all.” Martin chirped cheerfully, grinning ear to ear, his cheeks a charming shade of red that didn’t seem to be budging as he took the menu from the table and began rifling through it, “I’m just in a good mood. We’re going to the air museum today.”

He sounded far too much like a twelve year old in that moment for anyone to suspect that it might have been a date, but Deborah couldn’t help sighing and batting her eyelashes at him, running her gaze across his face and relishing the fact that _she had done that_.

“Oh, wow, that’s brilliant.” Arthur exclaimed, glancing up from his breakfast and looking between Martin and Deborah, “I’d love to go there, but I’m going shopping to see if I can find a present for Lily.”

“Hm, yes, that sounds like a plan.” Deborah replied, as Carolyn continued to interrogate Martin with a picture of incredulity scrawled across her face, “But if this last try doesn’t work, you might have to just give her up as a lost cause.”

Arthur hummed in agreement, and his smile dropped imperceptibly, but he otherwise turned back to his food, ducking from the conversation; this was well timed, as Deborah pricked her ears just in time to hear the end of Martin and Carolyn’s conversation.

“And Deborah’s going with you?” Carolyn inquired, raising an eyebrow and turning to smirk at her First Officer, “Deborah, I never knew you were so altruistic. What else have you been hiding from me?”

“Oh, nothing but a deep and harrowing love of aviation.” Deborah drawled, catching out of the corner of her eye the affectionate and almost doting gaze that Martin was laying upon her; she smirked, and continued in good humours, “It’s my secret sorrow; in truth, Martin hates planes, he’s simply covering for my own damned affliction.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Martin chimed in, nudging her subtly with his elbow; she chuckled, and turned briefly back to him.

“Why of course.” Deborah replied, quirking her eyebrows demonstratively, taking a small thrill from the giggled exhale that escaped his lips as he brought the menu back up to his face.

If Carolyn thought that was at all odd, she said nothing, but Deborah definitely caught her peering bemusedly between the two of them before she began complaining about the ridiculous demands of their client, who wanted taking back to England the next day.

oOoOoOo

Taking Martin to the aircraft museum was, in her opinion, one of the best things Deborah had ever done; as far as dates went, it was the best she had ever been on, purely because of how happy Martin was. It was true that she was enjoying herself as well, but she had never seen Martin so charged up with joy; the sight was wonderful, and made her heart skip little beats in her chest.

The museum was as close to the Elysian fields as Martin would ever get, containing more planes than either of them had ever seen in one place. The exhibit charted the history of aviation, with a warehouse dedicated to each era, from the early beginnings by the two Wright brothers, through both world wars, right the way to modern aircraft and spy planes that had starred in movies, and some that had starred in space.

Martin dragged her through each exhibit at a slow yet eager pace, hand intertwined with hers as he stopped to describe each aircraft in punishing detail, as if spurred on by the interest that she showed; and there was a lot to describe, as planes not only laid a pathway through the museum, but were suspended from the ceiling as if in majestic flight, like a cloud of midges filling the air.

In short, Martin was in his element, and every now and then Deborah would snap a picture on her phone, catching in elation for memory’s sake; at one point he noticed her doing it, and insisted that she couldn’t just take pictures of him. So another poor tourist was roped into taking a picture of the two of them, Martin’s arm around Deborah’s waist, grinning wickedly as he forced her to smile by pinching the opposite side of her waist; the moment that her phone was returned, Deborah slipped from his grasp so that he couldn’t make the most of her newly discovered ticklishness.

By the time they had wasted half the day, Deborah managed to convince Martin to stop in the little café in the centre of the museum and at least consume a sandwich and a cup of coffee; even then, as they sat on opposite sides of a small table, he was so cheerful he couldn’t stop talking.

“Deborah, have I ever told you that you’re the most amazing person in the whole world?” Martin inquired as he lifted his mug to his mouth, grin still firmly fixed on his lips, his eyes dancing over her face, “Because, I don’t want to inflate your ego too much, but you really are the greatest, most perfect person that has ever lived.”

“I think that may be the planes talking, Martin.” Deborah drawled, fighting the sardonic rush of affection that fluttered through her chest, as she leaned back in her seat and ran her nails around the edge of her drink.

“Yes, but you brought me to the planes.” Martin replied, gesturing knowledgably and winking; Deborah smiled and nodded, but said no more, taking the compliment for what it was and deciding not to look too hard at it.

There was a moment of peace, filled only by the clatter of the other customers around them, and Deborah took advantage of it to check her phone for messages; of course, no one had tried to reach her, but it never hurt to check just in case Carolyn had called in desperate need of assistance.

“Deborah…” Martin asked, and Deborah glanced up to find that he was biting his bottom lip sheepishly as he addressed her, burling his hands around the mug that he had placed down on the table between them, “I know _I’m_ having fun, but are _you_ enjoying yourself?”

“Of course I am.” Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes and reaching across the table to take his hand in hers; he looked somewhat placated, but not entirely, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. Besides, I’m rather looking forward to seeing whether your intimate knowledge of aviation could fill the _other_ half of the museum as well as the first.”

That was enough to reassured him, and before she knew it, Martin was back to his thrilled and excitable self, pulling her around from plane to plane, mouth running at a mile a minute.

oOoOoOo

Well past midnight, Deborah thought back over the events of the evening, a small contended smile curling up the corner of her lips as she sighed; it really had been a while since she’d had such a good time.

It had been late when they arrived back at the hotel, and for all intents and purposes, the date had been a success; Martin had been beautifully affectionate, and Deborah had found herself pressed against the door of their room, pushing back into the determined kisses that he was giving, hands grasping to get a secure hold.

Now Deborah lay in bed, stripped and sleepy, perfectly content beside Martin, whose arm rested behind her back, hugging her ever so slightly into his side as he played with the fingers on one of her hands, and her other digits brushed delicately up and down his chest; she was sure that Martin’s eyes were tracing her face, burning little trails across her cheeks as every now and then he pressed a small kiss to her forehead, but she focused solely on the path of her hand.

After the initial rush had died down, it hadn’t become awkward, but there was a sense that the space between them had become taut like the strings on a violin, balanced so precariously that one wrong move might have toppled what they had built.

“Was that…um…did you…” Martin murmured, managing to stutter even when his voice was so low and smooth, to the point that Deborah could almost feel it rumbling in his chest, “Was…uh, was that…good for you?”

Deborah let out a laugh at that, smiling widely and turning her head to rest more fully on his shoulder; she thought she heard Martin chuckle lightly, nervously, but she wasn’t sure, as his fingers stilled on hers, simply holding.

“Yes, it was good Martin.” She assured him; Martin was clumsy, as expected, but passionate all the same, and there was nothing about that that Deborah could fault, “It was fun…I enjoyed myself.” Martin hummed in acknowledgement, and Deborah tipped her head back to meet his gaze, sighing at the pensive dip of his eyebrows above the redness of his cheeks, “Well, now that we’ve covered the whole dating syllabus, is this the point where we have another talk?”

Deborah didn’t want to talk again; she was happy with things the way that they were, but she couldn’t lie to herself. Even though they kissed when they said hello and goodbye, and spent time together, and had now consummated their relationship to some extent…it sometimes felt like they were just…dabbling, rather than actually managing a relationship of sorts.

“Yes, uh, yes we should. I mean, we started this on the basis that we would _try_.” Martin remarked, and he shifted slightly so that he could better see her face, though his hold on her didn’t lessen, too relaxed despite his stuttering, “And now we’ve tried everything…do you think we’re working?”

“I have no complaints…” Deborah replied softly, swallowing weakly, “All of this, it’s good, it really is.” Steeling herself, she decided that honesty was the best policy; the lack of it had been the downfall of all of her previous relationships, and she didn’t think she could bear Martin to suffer the same fate, “But, I just feel as if we’re not entirely… _in_ a relationship, because we’ve focused so hard on just _trying_ , that we haven’t really relaxed into it. How do you suggest that we decide whether we’re actually functioning?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about that actually! I didn’t some nosing around on the internet-” Martin explained, regaining a sense of the excitement that he had embodied before, shifting until he was propped up ever so slightly; Deborah quirked her eyebrows, and held back a retort, “and the general consensus is that successful relationships, real ones, are built on three concepts.”

“Oh?” Deborah replied, smirking up at him; of course he had been researching, “And what would those be?”

“Well, the first one is friendship, and we’re good on that count.” Martin remarked confidently, gesturing with the hand that he kept curled around hers; Deborah could have suffocated under the pleasant fluttering that his certainty incited, “And the second was passion, and after tonight…”

“Martin, I think we established weeks ago that mutual attraction was a given.” Deborah interjected, stroking the back of her hand down his chest again, “And after tonight, I don’t doubt that.”

“Right, well, yes…we’ve got the friendship, and the passion,” Martin continued, business like and efficient; then he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth and ducked his head, before meeting her eyes with a shy smile, “The third bit is commitment, so basically whether the relationship will last long term, and whether its exclusive…which is what you’re talking about when you say you’re not sure, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Deborah answered; after a moment’s thought, and a deep breath to centre herself, she continued, eyes tracing the curve of his neck instead of meeting his gaze, “Martin, for reference, I would like us to last long term…and I very much want to be exclusive, just you and I.”

Martin’s chest heaved as if he were inhaling sharply, and when Deborah glanced up, she found that his face had lit up, and he was smiling nervously, licking his lips; his hand restarted its motions over hers, and he jostled as he used his other arm to gesture demonstratively.

“Good – good, me too.” He exclaimed, cheeks flushing with a thrilled sort of blush; it made Deborah all the more certain of the warmth bubbling in her chest, through her veins, “I want this to last, I really, really do, and I definitely want it to be just us.” Martin paused, and lifted his hand to brush her hair behind her ears, “I don’t want anyone else.”

“Well, good.” Deborah nodded, feeling oddly bashful all things considered; when no answer came save for the comforting weight of Martin’s head coming to rest atop of hers, Deborah let herself relax, and curl back into him, leaving her arm to rest lightly over his chest.

Minutes passed in unstrained silence, and as it was dark already, Deborah let her eyes drift shut, as she focused on how wonderful it felt having Martin right there with her, instead of the myriad of thoughts whirring about in her head.

“Do you want me to go back to my bed, or can I stay here?” Martin’s voice penetrated the quiet, though he barely moved as he spoke, the words almost vibrations through his throat; he sounded tentative, despite their discussion, and Deborah’s heart clenched momentarily.

“Please stay.” She murmured, and that was all it took for Martin to turn slightly, wrapping his free arm more securely over her waist, to join his other hand where it still held hers. Deborah lay still, and tried not to shiver with happiness when she felt him press a small kiss to the skin just beside her ear, where her hair was already falling back into its normal place.

For the first time in two weeks, like breathing cleaner air, it felt as if they were actually in a relationship, without having to think about every move; it was more than Deborah had dared hope for.


	32. Interlude 12

**Interlude 12**

Martin rushed around the porta-cabin, piling certain papers and files on Deborah’s side of the desk and trying to shove his coat over his shoulders as she leaned back against his side, watching him with her arms folded, making an effort to nod in all the right places.

It had been a short but early flight, and the crew had made it back to Fitton before noon; normally that would be cause for celebration and relaxation, but Martin had booked a van job for the early afternoon, and Deborah, burdened by a newfound sense of consideration that had developed remarkably swiftly over the two months that they had been together, had offered to stay behind and fill out the paperwork so that he didn’t have to rush.

“And these are absolutely vital; if you don’t do these, then we’re in trouble.” Martin reiterated, placing his palms down firmly atop the larger stack of papers, and taking care to meet Deborah’s gaze, thin lipped, to impress upon her the importance of his statement, before, pointing to the smaller pile, “these one’s are optional, as they can wait a few days, but if you have time, it would _really_ make my life easier if you could make a start on them.”

“Alright, will do.” Deborah replied brightly, smiling pleasantly and tapping the files that he had just mentioned; it wouldn’t do to have Martin get worked up before his job, as a clumsy van man got paid far less than the efficient one that she knew existed beneath the cloudy veneer.

“Really?” Martin retorted, the disbelief almost tangible in his voice as he straightened out and turned to face her, securing his coat where it tented at his shoulders, his eyebrows arched suspiciously, “You’ll actually do all of that, will you?”

“Of course I will.” Deborah shot back, pursing her lips to stop from showing the flicker of muted offense in her stomach, and thinking instead with fondness on why Martin’s stickling jitteriness was something that she liked about him instead, “I said that I will, and I’m going to.” as Martin sighed and fiddled sheepishly with his pockets, she stepped a little closer, closing the gap between them to run her hands over his collar and pretend to flatten it, “Normally I would shirk my responsibilities, but as you are in fact a romantic partner, and more importantly _my_ romantic partner, I will go out of my way to make your life easier, just this once.”

Martin’s expression softened, and he lay his hands over hers, lowering them until they hung at their sides; as much as all of this was in aid of giving him a good day, Deborah couldn’t help but be just a little bit pleased that he was conceding defeat.

“Oh, well….thank you.” Martin murmured apologetically, his cheeks blushing a faint shade of pink; his lips curled into a small smile, and he remarked almost to himself, “You’re too good for me.”

“Of that I’m well aware, Martin.” Deborah replied jauntily, making sure to grin and lean forwards to nudge her shoulder against his, fighting the temptation to plant a kiss on him; without thinking, she continued, lowering her voice to a sultry drawl, “I suppose you’re just lucky that I love you anyway.”

The responding chuckle never came, neither did the half cuddle, or squeeze of her hands, and it took all of a moment for Deborah to realise what she had said and freeze, raising her eyes slowly from the curve of Martin’s neck to meet his gaze. She hadn’t quite meant to say that; oh, Deborah had thought it many a time, all the more frequently over the past few months, but now that the words were free to fly through the air, she felt almost like the moths in her chest were shivering on the edge of escape.

“Really…?” Martin asked, his voice no more than a raised breath, and his forehead was crinkled in speculation as his eyes darted between hers, as if searching for any deception, his whole posture stiffened and leaning into hers as if poised in hope.

“I suppose.” Deborah replied, hearing a sort of nervous laughter where her own confidence should have been; she gripped Martin’s hands a little tighter, “Is that alright with you, Captain?”

“Yes, yes, it is, that is…” Martin began to chuckle, and his face split into a grin, his cheeks flushing red; he lurched forwards until their foreheads were resting together, and he could just about place a small kiss on the tip of Deborah’s nose, “that’s more than alright.” He shifted back to look her straight in the eyes, his own blue ones slightly wet, “I love you too.”

Deborah didn’t say anything, but allowed Martin to pull her closer, fingers curling into the folds of his coat, relishing the fizzles of emotion that had taken root beneath her skin the night that they had first fallen into bed together, and re-emerged at the most inconvenient of moments.

“Yes, well,” Martin cleared his throat and stepped back, and Deborah had only a second to mourn the loss of warmth before he was making his way across the porta-cabin, “I need to get going…I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later?”

“Oi, hold on a minute!” Deborah demanded, spinning on her heel to follow his path, wrapping her arms across her chest and setting her shoulders back; there was no way that she was letting him get away that easily, “I just revealed something horribly intimate, and you’re not even going to give me a kiss before you leave?”

To his credit, Martin paused, but he shoved his hands in his pockets and flapped a little, staring around the room down the end of his nose; Deborah nearly rolled her eyes, but refused to go to him, determined to make him break his own rules.

“We’re at work.” Martin bemoaned seriously, ignoring the way that she quirked her eyebrow at him; his stoic stubbornness had shone through spectacularly over this aspect of their relationship, “Someone might walk in and see us.”

“Then kiss me quickly.” Deborah drawled, letting the dare slip into her tone implicitly; a rush of heat filled her chest as Martin’s mouth snapped shut in the middle of an attempt at arguing, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Then he was striding across the porta-cabin, and faster than she could lift her hands to curve gently over his cheeks, Martin’s arms were around her and he was pressing his lips to her with a determined force that knocked all other thoughts from Deborah’s mind other than those that focused on the sensation of him pressed against her, pushing back, and the small humming noises that emanated from his chest. Deborah mused that if she were to let herself fall back onto the desk behind her, Martin might just crawl on top of her, as intense as his attentions were.

When Martin pulled away, Deborah could have sworn that her ears were ringing and her sights were stained like that of someone who had been staring at the sun too long; before he could step away completely, though he looked too punch-drunk to get very far, she darted forwards, running her hands up and over his shoulders, and placed one last lingering kiss on his lips.

“Pop round mine when you’re done.” Deborah instructed softly, her head nodding unconsciously in time with his as Martin licked his lips and ran his fingers down her arms; as much as she wanted to keep him there, he really _did_ need to go, “I’ll see you later.”

oOoOoOo

Sitting in the porta-cabin, trudging her way through the paperwork that Martin had left, Deborah found that she had little else to do but muse on the state of her and Martin’s relationship; her unfortunate slip of the tongue left few other options, as her mind ran away on its own.

The two months that they had been together, not a lot had changed; they still laughed and bickered, and at work, their friendship was as strong as ever…probably better ever, as every now and then one of the would forget where they were and let their hands drift across the flight-deck, or walk far to close across the airfield. At one point Martin had remembered how ticklish Deborah’s sides were, and they had almost fallen into the porta-cabin, his arms reaching around to grasp at her waist, while they both laughed, only to find Arthur and Carolyn waiting for them.

It was true, they didn’t do a lot of things that other new couples did, but Deborah knew that they weren’t exactly like other couples, and really…she was happier than she had been in a very long time.

They didn’t really do dates, per say. The day trip in Ohio had been the only bug occasion; Deborah was the only one that tried to encourage romantic outings, but with Martin refusing to let her cover the bills, she had been careful, and had inwardly conceded to respect his pride on the matter.

And Martin…he didn’t take her on dates; Deborah knew that it was because he couldn’t afford to splash out, and because recently he had been taking so many more van jobs than he had before, but that didn’t stop him from pouting and stewing over it, no matter how many times she told him that she didn’t care.

That was the only real bump in the relationship; Deborah was perfectly content to accept the lack of dates or gifts, because she was well aware after three long term relationships that they didn’t mean a thing. Harry had doted on her, but when the gifts were taken away, there was nothing there.

Martin on the other hand made up for his lack of money by spending as much time with her as he could, giving Deborah all of his attention, making even the simplest of events, like packing up the hold, seem like a stolen moment. Sometimes he made her chest flutter, and as ridiculous as it sounded, Martin could made Deborah feel as if she were the most important thing in the world, and that every moment not spent with her was a moment wasted…second only to flying, being Captain, and the CAA of course. But that was Martin, and she wouldn’t have loved him if that weren’t true.

And he told her he loved her at every opportunity; so much that sometimes, when Deborah was having a bad day, or was a little annoyed with him, a vicious voice in the back of her head would whisper that he didn’t mean it, he was just saying that to compensate for his inability to provide any substance to the romance.

But Deborah pushed that aside, crushed it, and every time cursed herself, furious that there should be any residual bitterness from her previous relationships to mar what she had with Martin.

Martin was better than any of the other men that she had been with, because unlike them, he was her friend; she didn’t think she could bear to see him leave…it wouldn’t be even a little bit as easy as the other separations had.

No. Deborah scratched her pen with particular vitriol across the page; she wasn’t going to let herself think like that. Martin was the best thing in her life right then, and she wasn’t going to let go of him when things were going so well between them.

A light tapping snapped her from her reverie; it was light enough that for a moment Deborah wasn’t sure she had even heard it at all, but she grasped at the first excuse to put down her pen and push the paperwork away from her, leaning back in her seat and sighing, rolling her shoulders back.

Before she had time to explore further, the door to the porta-cabin jammed, and then slid open with a gentleness with which it had never before been treated, only for a small, frizzy wisp of a head to peek through, followed by a body not nearly as akin to a cloud as Deborah had been expecting.

“Oh, sorry, hello, Arthur said I could wait in here while he ran an errand for his mum.” The young woman announced, her pale cheeks flushing as she flustered around the door, pulling it shut behind her back but making no move to step further inside, her hands wringing nervously around her, “I’m Lily.”

It took all of one cursory glance for Deborah to realise that Lily, with her mousy blonde hair bundled wispily atop her head, her baggy hoody that looked as if the neck had been taken to with scissors, atop dark jeans and a mess of thin scarves, was mid-twenties, and still carrying all the hallmarks of a girl raised well and in the countryside.

True, she wasn’t the token ‘pony club’ girl that Arthur normally attracted, but she possessed that odd ability that all of Deborah’s old class mates possessed, wherein she could appear completely at home and confident in herself, but tuck in as if the world was the one that wasn’t as she had been taught; she suspected that perhaps Arthur simply had a magical allure over the more moneyed female demographic.

“Do come in, Lily, make yourself at home.” Deborah dragged her arm through the air, gesturing to her sofa, which the young woman made a beeline towards, smiling awkwardly and pushing her hair from her face with her hands; Deborah didn’t want to seem too interested, but she was fascinated by the woman that up until that moment she had thought might exist only within the library, “I’m Deborah, a friend of Arthur’s.”

“Hi, he um, he mentioned you actually, and a Martin.” Lily replied, folding her hands over her lap and glancing about the porta-cabin; she blushed sheepishly, and continued under cover of a truncated giggle of anxiety, “You’re actually the reason I agreed to go on a date with him.”

“How so?” Deborah inquired, leaning forwards and placing her elbows on the desk, her head in her hands, so that she could peer at the young woman, who reminded her of one of those fluffy kittens that goggled at the world around it.

“Well, I didn’t say yes for a really long time – I liked him, but I thought, well, I thought that no one can be as nice as Arthur, or that lovely, or want to do so much for me. I thought maybe he was pretending as some sort of joke.” Lily explained, her voice light and bouncy as she shrugged and her hands flittered about, never really laying still, “But then last time, he said that he’d asked his friends why I kept saying no, and I figured that if he was asking for help, then he _couldn’t_ be joking, even though he really is so unbelievably lovely.”

“That’s our Arthur; unbelievably lovely ninety-nine point eight per cent of the time.” Deborah drawled, smirking as Lily’s eyes widened and she seemed to soak in every word, as if extra assurance was a holy decree, “The other point two per cent, he’s arguing with me, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Lily giggled weakly, and nodded hastily, which made her hair flit through the air around her like a blonde halo, falling this way and that; she didn’t get much else out, as the door creaked and bumped open, and the man himself bumbled through.

“Hi Deborah!” Arthur called as he held the door open; Deborah opened her mouth to reply, but he was already ushering Lily back towards him, and she was eagerly skipping across the room, “The car’s all ready, I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a minute then.” Lily chirped, and before Deborah could so much as utter a sound of farewell, she had disappeared into the open air; she couldn’t help but roll her eyes as Arthur let the door swing shut behind him and hurried towards the desk. Young love; it was a headache to those in its path, but no one could deny them their happiness while it lasted.

“Isn’t she great?” Arthur exclaimed, leaning down with his palms flat on Deborah’s desk, a huge grin plastered across his lips and his brown eyes wide with excitement; all it took was for Deborah to nod bemusedly, and he was off again, “We’re going to that new restaurant that you were talking about last week, the Italian one that you said had really good pasta. Lily’s going to love it, I know, because she was telling me about how her library has some volunteers in Italy, and about she’s always wanted to go, so I know, tonight’s going to be great!”

“Good, I’m very proud of you.” Deborah replied, placing her hands together and smiling warmly up at him, the sight of Arthur so happy making warmth bubble up in her diaphragm; now, with Carolyn not-so-secretly dating Herc, the whole crew was actually living the good life so to speak, “You persevered, and it paid off.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Arthur exulted, his shoulders sagging in belated relief as he failed to contain his gratitude; Deborah reached out to pat his elbow in a sort of soothing gesture, and it seemed to work, for the most part, as he stopped jittering, “Thank you, so so much.”

“Stop thanking me, and go see to your date.” Deborah instructed, pointing her finger firmly towards the door; she smirked at the flash of guilt that made its way across Arthur’s face as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Okay, thank you!” Arthur concluded hastily, jolting back from the desk, only to dart back down and place a small peck on her cheek, before almost sprinting from the porta-cabin, so fast that the door didn’t even have time to stick.

oOoOoOo

Deborah pootled around her flat, shifting things over on shelves, tidying this and that, rearranging drawers and pushing furniture to new spaces, all the while glancing towards the windows, through which she had watched the sky turn dark, and the street lamps throw orange orbs into the night.

When she had finally made it home, Deborah had wandered around for a while, before she started moving things around, spotting places where the space could be better utilised. For example, if she moved that key table by the door, there would be more room for Martin to leave his shoes beneath the coat hangers.

And if she moved this, there would be a place for Martin to put his bag when he stayed the night after a flight, or if there was more space there, Martin might not feel so obligated to keep all his things in one place, he might leave books or knick-knacks lying around. The whole flat might be just a little more homely if it were easier for Martin to integrate.

Outside, the familiar grumble of Martin’s van punctuate the quiet, and Deborah hoisted herself up from where she was rearranging the coffee table and wandered into the kitchen area to put the kettle on; it had been a long day, and nothing said welcome like tea just the way Martin liked it.

She could hear the key turning in the lock, and the door opening and closing, but Deborah didn’t turn around yet, instead searching through the cupboards for the sugar; Martin would make his way over to her in a minute.

Except, he didn’t, and Deborah paused in her search to wonder over the unusual break from routine; rolling her eyes, she let the cupboard bang closed, and turned to stride back into the sitting room, only to find Martin standing stiffly by the door, his hands behind his back.

“Martin?” Deborah asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion as she strode towards him, “What are you-”

“Ta Da!” Martin exclaimed weakly, and before she could reach him, he whipped his hands from behind his back to reveal a large, cacophonous arrangement of flowers that bunched in their intricately arranged patterns, all shades of pink and purples and whites, and most definitely expensive.

Deborah stumbled to a halt, close enough that when she lifted her hands in surprise, Martin was able to foist the bouquet into her arms, and throw his own arms to his sides as if to say ‘my job is done, applaud’; the flowers were beautiful, there was no denying that, and apart from the little voice nagging at her over how much they must have cost him, Deborah was awash with humbled surprise, like subtle pinpricks of heat tickling her pores. For once, she wasn’t sure what to say.

“ _Martin_ …” she gasped lowly, lowering the flowers so that she could blink at him from over the top of the mane of petals, stepping backwards so that he could enter the room further, “What are these for?”

“They’re for you.” Martin replied matter-of-factly, clasping his hands together at his front; he was still wearing his coat, open at the front, but he must have been too busy waiting for Deborah’s reaction to do much more than chew on his lip and watch her, red faced, “I – I was thinking about what you said this morning, and about how…we _love_ each other, and how, how that’s _huge_ , and so I thought,” at this Martin sighed, and frowned a little, his expression turning reluctantly downtrodden; it was enough to make doubt simmer beneath Deborah’s joy, “I thought about how I can’t afford to take you out, or buy you nice things, but that given the circumstances, I should make a romantic gesture, because you deserve it, and-”

“Martin, we’ve been over this,” Deborah sighed, shaking her head and treading past him to place the flowers on the coffee table, wrapping her arms around her chest when she turned back to meet his gaze, “I _know_ what your living situation is, and I don’t _need_ any gestures, or expensive things-”

“It’s not about whether you _need_ them.” Martin remarked, letting his hands drop back down to his sides, his eyebrows knitting in the middle of his forehead, “It’s about me, as your partner, _wanting_ to be able to provide them.”

“Oh, for God’s sake Martin,” Deborah cursed, shaking her head and running a hand through her hair; the flutters from before had faded, only to make way for the niggles of trepidation that burrowed in her guts for moments like these, the doubters and worriers, “If this is your bloody pride again.”

“It’s not _pride_!” Martin insisted, his face contorting defensively as his chest puffed out in indignation; Deborah knew that this was a touchy subject, but she couldn’t stop it now that he had been irritated, “It’s _principle_!” he took a deep breath and gnawed at his lip, though Deborah suspected that he was more angry with himself than her; not that that had ever stopped him, “When other women are loved, they get fancy dinners, and jewellery, and flowers whenever they want. I can’t do all that, but the least I can do for the woman I love is work a few extra jobs, and scrape together enough to buy the most expensive flowers that Fitton has to offer – and I’m not going to let you tell me that’s wrong!”

“This isn’t about making me feel loved Martin!” Deborah didn’t raise her voice, but it was a close call; contrary to what he might have thought, Deborah knew Martin inside out, his every quirk, and this one, the one that she loved because it made him _him_ , was also the one that caused most of their disagreements, and would be better off alleviated, “This is about you trying to match up to other men when it really doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter!” Martin retorted irritably; at this Deborah turned and strode into the kitchen, and began clattering with the mugs and kettle, only to hear Martin follow her in, so she turned and glared expectantly until he continued, his cheeks red with exertion, his eyes wide and desperate for her to understand, “Because you _love_ me, a-a-and, I don’t deserve that! I can’t match up to a million men that you could choose, but I’m selfish, so I’m not going to let you go. So don’t you dare tell me not to try and be good enough!”

Deborah exhaled raggedly, and closed her eyes, leaning back against the counter for support; even though this was the first time they had even spoken the words, it felt like they had had the same argument a thousand times before, always a sticking point between them. It made her want to choke on the pit in her throat.

“Martin, when are you going to get it through your thick head that if I didn’t think you were good enough, gifts and dates or not, I wouldn’t be with you at all?” Deborah inquired rhetorically; when she opened her eyes, Martin’s lips were pursed, and he was looking anywhere but at her.

After a few minutes, during which the kettle clicked for a second time, only to be ignored; it became apparent that Martin wasn’t going to reply, but as the bobbing at his throat suggested, he _was_ going to try and distract her.

“So, um…what were you doing before I got here?” Martin asked, swaying slightly on his heels as he gestured around the room; he attempted a small, thin lipped smile and the bridge of his nose crinkled with the effort, “It looks cleaner.”

“I was rearranging to make more space for you…” Deborah replied dryly gripping the counter behind her, and noting with miserable acknowledgement the flicker of regret that crossed Martin’s face and made his shoulders stiffen, “or to make it easier if you wanted to leave things here…”

“Deborah, no, it’s the same thing-” Martin began to respond exhaustedly, the weight of the atmosphere between them dragging him away from indignation and into resignation as he shook his head.

“Fine-” Deborah said quickly, raising her hands in surrender, but Martin kept talking despite how desperate she was for them to stop arguing.

“- I know my attic is old, and small, and horrible, and that your flat is nice, and big, and lovely, but I refuse to foist myself onto you like that, I will not take advantage-” he reeled off, as if he were some kind of martyr.

“You’re not taking advantage, I’m _inviting_ you in!” Deborah stated plainly, regretting immediately how needy her own voice sounded, how she could almost feel her eyes prickling; she gripped the counter and squared her shoulders, lips pouting defiantly, “I _want_ you here.”

Martin fell silent, and he was tracing his eyes over her face in the way that he did when he was soaking in her image, taking her in and absorbing whatever emotion she was throwing at him, like a parched man sadly analysing a mirage.

It was too much for Deborah to deal with, so she let her eyes fall and glared petulantly at the corner of a cabinet, trying to ignore the miserable clawing at her chest; it might have helped if Martin had said something to snipe back at, but he didn’t. That was something else that hadn’t transferred across; when they were being friendly, there was always a retort, even if it was ridiculous, but when it came to them as a couple, he always held back, as if scared he might ruin it.

After a short while, it was Martin that broke the silence.

“This isn’t really the romantic evening that I had planned.” Martin remarked, sounding almost apologetic; when Deborah slowly lifted her head to look at him, he smiled sheepishly, biting anxiously at his bottom lip.

“Well,” Deborah replied weakly, taking her hands from the counter to rub over her eyes; this was better, this she could do; she didn’t really want to fight with him, not even a little bit, “the flowers _are_ my favourite.”

“See, I _do_ listen!” Martin exclaimed, and Deborah only had time to giggle a truncated sort of scoff before he lowered the hand that had shot out, and glanced sadly at the floor, as if judging the space between them while rubbing nervously at his chin, “Deborah…I know there’s no chance of us sleeping together tonight, and that I might as well go home…but could we maybe just… _sleep_ together, like, just next to each other if you’re really sick of me?”

Deborah opened her mouth to speak, but no words came as she peered, bewildered at him; Martin cleared his throat, and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“It’s just, even though we’re technically fighting…” Martin trailed off, and blinked hard, as if too overcome with emotion to see straight, dragging his hand over the back of his neck, “I don’t really want to be away from you.”

“Oh, _Martin_ …” Deborah sighed, placing her hand over her chest, which was in the process of suffocating under the weight of the moths roaring and alight, infecting every fibre of her being; _god_ , she loved the stupid idiot, “Why would you buy me things when you could be here saying things like that?”

Martin gaped, but Deborah didn’t give him time to speak before she crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly and burying her face in his chest; she felt like she could gush with emotion as his arms fastened strong and secure around her shoulders, tucking her head in, and she felt him press his lips against the top of her head, barely giving himself room to breathe.

There was no denying that they still had their problems, but in that moment, Deborah was willing to forget every single one of them.


	33. Interlude 13

**Interlude 13**

Despite the darkened wash of the sky, it was still too early to even consider turning in for the night; with no flight, they had endured the usual stand-by nine to five day, and Deborah was still wide awake, having barely exhausted a shred of energy.

It had taken a lot of convincing, some surreptitious nudging, and a lot of subtle murmurs, but Martin had finally grown comfortable having Deborah in his attic, enough at least that he no longer shuffled around or tried to justify the sparseness, and even seemed to enjoy having her there for extended periods of time.

Even so, it was a rare occasion that they spent the night in Parkside Terrace instead of in Deborah’s flat; it was frustrating, but she had convinced herself not to bring up the matter of Martin putting down roots in her home. Every now and then Deborah would mention leaving clothes or items in her flat, or hint that he could stay for good if he wanted, but each time Martin would brush it off and change the subject. So they didn’t talk about it.

But tonight Martin had been eager and willing for Deborah to hop into his van and accompany him back to his attic; apparently he had been looking forward to some sort of ‘couple’s evening’ all week, and if she hadn’t asked, he would have. Deborah had rolled her eyes and made a sarcastic remark concerning scheduling, but in truth, she was rather fond of his regimented quirks.

So, after dodging the students all the way up the stairs, Deborah had changed from her uniform into a pair of Martin’s shorts and the t-shirt that he wore to bed, dropping onto his bed and waiting for him to complete his ‘getting home’ routine, tapping the television remote against her leg.

“Are you joining me or not Martin?” Deborah called, smirking slightly as she watched Martin bumble around his kitchen area, arranging the utensils that had been stacked by the sink; she slouched on the bed, leaning back into the pillow that she had propped between her back and the wall, her ankles crossing in tandem with the arms that she folded loosely over her chest, “Because you have two minutes before I start the film without you.”

That should have instilled in him some sort of haste; he had chosen the DVD himself, as a sort of christening after his brother had given him his second hand player in what Deborah was assured was an unusual show of brotherly affection.

“Yes, yes, just one minute!” Martin’s voice echoed slightly from the cupboard that he had his head stuck in (Deborah could only see his backside as he rifled through his belongings, but she wasn’t about to complain); one arm waved frantically in the air over his shoulder, “Don’t even think about starting without me.”

Deborah snorted, grinning at the little bounce in his tone as she relaxed, prepared to wait for him, but relishing how perfectly Martin reacted to teasing, even after so long; it still made little flutters of heat cartwheel in her chest.

When Martin emerged on the correct side of the room, his hair out of place and his shirt creased in all the wrong places, he kept his hand behind his back, the corner of his lips curling up at the edges.

“Okay Deborah, get ready for a cosy night in…” Martin announced, ignoring her quirked eyebrow and pandering instead to the inquisitive way that she leaned forwards to try and discover what he was hiding, “I’ve brought your favourite thing...” he dragged his words as if to create tension, and then whipped his hands from behind his back, and his face split into a wide smile, “Caramel ice cream!”

“Oh, _Martin_ , you magnificent man!” Deborah drawled, immediately extending her arms and curling her fingers in a some hither motion; she shifted slightly so that when Martin clambered onto the bed to sit beside her, he could wrap an arm around her and she could rest with one shoulder tucked in against his chest, taking to plastic tub and spoons from his hands and replacing them with the remote.

“I _knew_ that would put you in a good mood.” Martin muttered proudly, puffing out his chest as he aimed the remote at the television and made a few aborted jabbing motions before the screen flickered into life; the arm around Deborah’s waist tugged as she fiddled with her nails between the plastic edges of the dessert, and he ducked his head down to remark playfully, but with a more serious edge, “And before you say anything, it was on offer.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Deborah replied swiftly, yanking the lid away and letting it drop to the floor (she would get it later); for a split second it felt as if the comfortable stupor had stiffened, but she simply swallowed her indignation and snuggled back into Martin’s embrace, tipping her head back so that she could meet his gaze and drawled salaciously, “If you don’t watch out, caramel ice cream might find itself becoming my _second_ favourite thing.”

“What…? _Oh_ , you mean _me?_ ” Martin exclaimed, his eyes blowing wide for a fleeting moment, before he cleared his throat and adopted a modicum of satirical grace, missing by a mile and landing instead in the waters of smug smirks and flushed cheeks as the tension disappeared from his limbs and he rested his cheeks against the top of Deborah’s head, “Um, thank you…I love you too.”

“I said _if_.” Deborah teased, and was rewarded with a sharp tug at her waist and Martin’s scrunched up face pressing a sloppy kiss against her hair; knocked off balance, and giggling reluctantly, Deborah had to catch herself, hand curled into Martin’s shirt, as she resettled with one leg hooked over his, holding his hands still around her, “What have I said about tickling me?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t hear you over the _giggling_.” Martin retorted seriously, making sure not to make eye contact even as he sniggered, keeping his head straight as he began to fiddle with the remote once again; by then the screen was filled with little moving figures, and all that needed doing was to switch to the channel that he had connected to the DVD player.

Deborah shook her head, lips pursed, but all that she could muster was an undeniable wash of affection and love; it was so much easier to let her head drop into the curve of his shoulder and lay her hands over the crook in his elbow than to provoke him further. Much nicer too.

Half an hour later, and Deborah was barely paying attention to the film; she suspected that Martin too was sparing it only his peripheral focus, as the volume was low, and his head was turned just enough that he could watch the movement of his fingers as they stroked over hers, intertwining and stroking gently in the few centimetres between them.

That made then as good a moment as any; with the comfortable rhythm that they had fallen into, and the almost perfect evening, not over the top, nor dull at all, but just right, like pieces drawn together and clicking into place, it was hard to think of anything but the same few thoughts that had been rolling around the back of her mind for a week or two.

“Martin?” Deborah whispered, just in case her assessment had been wrong; Martin hummed in acknowledgement, and shifted just enough beneath her that it was the equivalent of turning and giving her his full attention, so Deborah slowly lifted her head, pushing away the hair that fell into her face and steeled herself, continuing softly, “I need to ask you something important, and you need to answer it honestly.”

Barely a second passed before Martin was sluggishly pulling himself into a more upright position, reluctant to relinquish their embrace, but concerned, eyes narrowing as Deborah slid backwards and he could take a clearer look at her face.

“What is it?” Martin asked when she didn’t continue straight away; his hand moved to push her hair more firmly behind her ear, letting his knuckles brush soothingly against her cheeks as he corrected the task that she had failed to complete.

“How would you feel about telling people about us?” Deborah answered quickly, making sure that her tone was firm and that she pursed her lips purposefully; she took in the confused dip of Martin’s eyebrows and continued, determined to get her point across before he could add any sort of doubt, “We’ve been together for four months now, and we’re, at least _I_ believe that we’re perfectly secure in our relationship, and how we feel about each other, so I see no reason for us to still be consorting in secret.”

“But four months…” Martin repeated, thinning his lips and sucking in air through his teeth; Deborah sat back a little further, missing the warmth he provided the moment that the rustling of her clothes against his met her ears, “Four months is almost nothing in the grand scheme-”

“I’ve known people get engaged in three.” Deborah interjected, pouting slightly as she brought her arms around her chest; it was only when she saw Martin’s eyes widen and his hand still where it had been tapping unconsciously on her knee that she realised what she had actually said.

“Do you _want_ to get engaged?” Martin retorted, with something akin to bemused terror lacing his voice; he was shaking his head ever so slightly, and his eyes were scanning up and down her face, “Because I – I don’t think we’re there yet.”

“No, no of _course_ not!” Deborah assured him, breaking eye contact and pushing a hand through her hair; then she paused, and her forehead furrowed as she glanced back up to where Martin was staring at her wearing a wary expression, “Wait…yet?”

“Well, I-I-I, um, I-” Martin spluttered, looking anywhere but at her; Deborah knew that she would get no straight answer when he began picking at his sleeves, doing as they always did, and avoiding anything too intense, “I still don’t think we should tell people about us, yet.”

“Why not?” Deborah demanded weakly; it wasn’t that she wanted to push Martin into something he didn’t want, but there was something about his refusal to move forwards that made little spirals of doubt cling to her insides, regardless of how happy she was otherwise, “Is it that you’re embarrassed, or that you think it’s unprofessional, or perhaps you’re just not ready? You _can_ tell me; I don’t know what you think I’m going to do.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” Martin insisted, his chest heaving momentarily with a flare of proud indignation, reaching between them to grasp at Deborah’s hands; it was a small comfort, but Deborah took it for what it was, dropping her eyes sheepishly, “And I don’t think it’s unprofessional; unprofessional would be if we just slept together every now and again, but we don’t, we’re in a relationship, so the CAA can’t possibly have a problem with that.” Deborah rolled her eyes, but Martin sounded far too decisive to argue with; he sighed, and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, “…I _am_ ready…I just like things the way they are.”

“But surely there’s nothing wrong with Carolyn and Arthur knowing.” Deborah suggested, shrugging nonchalantly and smiling thinly; in truth, she knew that they probably suspected that something was going on, but so long as they were ignorant, Deborah couldn’t help but feel bereft of something, though she wasn’t sure what.

“Deborah, you’re the most private person I know.” Martin sighed; he shifted so that he was kneeling with his legs tucked beneath him; Deborah quirked an eyebrow, but listened, “I know it upsets you when _I_ say that you’re well out of my league – I don’t want what we’ve got to become strained when everyone else is saying the same thing!”

“Oh, why would anyone be saying anything Martin?” Deborah asked flippantly; as far as she was concerned, they were happy together, and after all the embarrassments that she , “It’s not as if anything’s _really_ changed.”

“But things _have_ changed!” Martin insisted, his hands flipping into the air for emphasis, “ _We’ve_ changed! Or, well, at least _you_ have – I don’t know if _I_ have. People notice, and they talk, and I just want some more time to enjoy _us_ without having to worry about that.”

“How have I changed?” Deborah interrupted; a cold hand clenched around her lungs, and she stiffened, no longer clasping Martin’s hands as he was hers. Even though it was silly, her mind rang back to before, to accusations from other men that she hadn’t been herself when they were together.

“Well, you haven’t really,” Martin explained, cocking his head to the side as he ran his gaze over her, smiling encouragingly, the corners of his lips curling redundantly upwards, “You’ve just…mellowed a bit.”

“And I suppose you prefer this ‘mellow’ me?” Deborah inquired tersely, pouting slightly as she glared towards the corner of the bed; she thought that she might have sounded bitter, but couldn’t change that once the words had left her mouth.

“No, Deborah, I love you regardless – maybe I didn’t say it right,” Martin muttered, shaking his head and chewing on his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes in intense concentration, “You haven’t _changed_ , you’re still you, like you were when we met – i-it’s just like with Flight Simulator, when they change the model. It’s the same thing, they’ve just tweaked the user interface so that it’s easier to access-”

“Oh, I _see_ …” Deborah drawled, hastily reasserting her confidence, forcing away the simmering of discomfort in her guts and taking back the upper hand; she smirked at Martin’s shaky smile, as she could see him thinking that he had done well, “So, I’ve mellowed in much the same way that you’ve become bolder, and no longer feel the need to stutter and assert your authority?”

Martin huffed, and rolled his eyes, but bit back the sarcastic retort that was almost palpable on his lips; it wasn’t hard to see that he was tired, and far too tired of their conversation to push the subject much further.

“It’s getting late Deborah…can we just forget about this tonight?” Martin asked, his voice low as he slumped where he was slouched, hiss posture loose and languidly taut; Deborah took a moment to trace her eyes over the lines of his face, and found that as much as she wanted to settle things then and there, she couldn’t make herself prod him anymore.

“Alright…” she sighed, ducking her head; while Martin nodded and extended his arm, motioning for her to return to his side, Deborah shifted only a fraction, so that she could sit by his side, knees pulled to her chest as she leaned close enough that her arm was pressed to his, “Not a word.”

oOoOoOo

An overnight stay in Las Vegas provided Deborah with the perfect opportunity to surprise Martin with a romantic and enjoyable evening; she knew that he was going to love it, but hadn’t been sure of the best way to trick him into it in her own flat. A hotel in a foreign country was the perfect place to execute her plan.

Martin had flat out refused to go to a casino and count cards, even though Deborah knew that he _could_ ; she knew that his brain was astonishingly wired for mathematics, and she had even seen him counting when they played _Uno_. Cheating her out of her pride was apparently more ethical than earning a bit of cash though, and Martin had simply shook his head, a tiny smirk adorning his lips at the acknowledgement of his superior academic skills.

About half an hour ago, Deborah had sent Martin off in search of shampoo, claiming that she had forgotten hers and left it at home, and he had dutifully left, promising to be back soon; that gave her the hotel room to herself, and Deborah wasn’t wasting a moment of it.

Using the mirror on the back of the bathroom door to check her appearance, Deborah pursed her lips as she smoothed down the creases in her recently purchased attire; it couldn’t quite be called lingerie, more of a thin purple dress that revealed far more than was acceptable anywhere outside of the bedroom, airy and tight fitting, held up by hair-string straps, less than a metre of material beneath her hair, which had grown long enough that it fell it darkish waves over her shoulders.

Perhaps not the most sexual or revealing thing she could have bought for the occasion, but Deborah had no doubt that it would get Martin eager enough to spice up the evening. The air-conditioning unit was a tad stronger than most hotels provided, and Deborah had slipped a robe over her shoulders to counter the flow; arranging it over her curves, she mused that it might even help dramatise her big reveal.

A knock at the door cut through the air, and Deborah’s hand moved reflexively to slam the bathroom door shut, returning to push her hair back as she inhaled deeply, steadying herself; Martin had probably forgotten his key, again. That wasn’t a problem; it meant that she could unveil her surprise in an even more sultry manner.

Deborah fiddled with her attire each second that it took to cross the room, and she paused with her fingers curled around the handle; one arm propped against the frame, the other crooked with a hand on her waist, and a salacious smirk, that was all she would need to execute the perfect seduction.

“That was quick, darling-” Deborah drawled, adopting the most suave posture that she could as she let the door swing open; except, it wasn’t Martin that greeted her with wide eyes and lips pursed in confusion, “Carolyn!”

“Deborah…” Carolyn replied stiltedly, taking a moment to flicker her eyes over Deborah’s attire as she hastily wrapped the robe around her, folding her arms tightly over her chest and hunching ever so slightly in order to compensate for the surge of embarrassment that rippled through her flesh, “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” Deborah tried not to hiss as she stepped back and allowed Carolyn to enter the room; she could feel her cheeks tickling as they filled with blood, and it was too much to ask that it couldn’t be seen in the tepid lights above their heads.

“Then let me rephrase that – why the hell are you dressed like _that_ on a Wednesday evening?” Carolyn demanded, still looking her up and down, eyebrows at her hairline as Deborah grumbled and stomped back to her bed, dropping gracelessly down onto the edge; Carolyn stood a few feet away, her hands on her hips, “I thought you were sharing with-” she broke off, mouth hanging open, and she continued in a tone more shocked than Deborah had even heard from the woman, “ _Martin_? Deborah, please tell me you’re not sleeping with _Martin?_ ”

“I think that might be a bit redundant now, wouldn’t it?” Deborah muttered petulantly, folding one leg over the other, tucking into herself as she glared up at the older woman; Carolyn didn’t even snort as she thought that she might.

“But _Martin_?” Carolyn exclaimed, now shaking her head, forehead furrowed in bewildered shock as she glared down at Deborah; it was beginning to make her stomach roil uncomfortably, “Of _all_ the people – _Martin_?”

“That’s enough Carolyn.” Deborah raised her hands into the air briefly, dropping them back onto her lap; she sat as straight as she could without letting her robe reveal too much, feasting off the rush of fiery defensiveness that burned through her chest, “I don’t want to hear a thousand reasons why you think Martin isn’t good enough, or why we shouldn’t work, or whatever other criticisms you can think of…I just need you to accept that it’s happening, and move on.”

There was no immediate response; Carolyn stared, open mouthed, and Deborah almost squirmed under the odd glint in the other woman’s eyes. She didn’t know how she had been expecting her to react, but this hadn’t been it; Martin had been right, Deborah really didn’t like the judgement.

“Oh, dear _lord_!” Carolyn groaned, her eyes still wide in what might have been horror; she ran a hand over her face, before fixing Deborah with a pointed glare, “You actually have feelings for him…”

“Of course I do, we’re in a relationship!” Deborah snapped, inhaling sharply as she held Carolyn’s glare; oddly, it occurred to her that she had never realised how furious insults to Martin’s honour made her, “Would you rather it was just a fling?”

“A fling would be easy to deal with!” Carolyn retorted, throwing her hands into the air, and sighing beseechingly, “You’d just go back to normal when it was over, no harm done. But _feelings_ …Deborah, you realise that if things go wrong, it won’t be just the two of you that suffer?” Carolyn stilled, and shook her head again, making sure to meet Deborah’s gaze, the light in her eyes almost near to imploring, or concerned, “What if you end up hating each other so much that I lose both my pilots?”

“Why would we end up hating each other?” Deborah’s voice wavered towards the end, and her arms wrapped once again around her chest, holding herself together as she tried to maintain her steely façade.

“The two of you nearly flew GERTI into a mountain because you were too busy arguing over which Star Trek era was the best.” Carolyn replied wryly, reverting to her usual ambiance of muted disdain.

“Martin’s a fool if he thinks Picard comes anywhere near the greatness of Kirk and his crew.” Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head; Carolyn’s distempered huff was reward enough, and her spirits lifted infinitesimally, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Martin and I are fine, and there’s no need to worry about the future of MJN.”

Deborah ran a hand through her hair, and waited for the sarcastic and cutting remark; none came, and when she looked up, Carolyn was watching her pensively, head cocked just an inch. She tried to raise a derisory smirk, but couldn’t shift the sad droop of her expression, nor the dejected slump of her shoulders.

“So…you and Martin?” Carolyn inquired, bringing her hands together at her front and rocking on her heels; the tentative, withdrawn edge to her tone made Deborah’s breath catch in her throat, and she raised an eyebrow to stare up at her in surprise, even as Carolyn continued, “How long?”

It took a moment before Deborah could answer; she was too caught off guard by the unusual show of interest, and the implication that her employer might actually care, no matter how reluctantly.

“Uh…four months…” Deborah told her, quirking her eyebrows and shrugging in a facsimile of surprise that Carolyn mirrored, though far more genuinely; she lifted a hand into the air in surrender, “Before you say anything, we were going to tell you…eventually.”

“Good…” Carolyn remarked awkwardly, finally taking her eyes from Deborah’s to glance around the room, “That’s good I suppose…”

Thankfully, at that moment, the door swung open; as Carolyn turned on her heel, faster than Deborah had ever seen her move, Deborah rose to her feet in an instant, arms held stiffly against her chest as she cursed inwardly.

“Hey, Deborah, I think I left the door open, are-” Martin trailed off as he took in the scene before him, a small plastic bag hooked over one of his arms as the other was extended to grip the door handle; his eyes lingered torturously long on Deborah, dragging up and down her form twice, before he jolted, flushed scarlet, and almost choked as he looked to Carolyn, “What’s, uh – what’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about Martin, I was just having a little chat with you _girlfriend_.” Carolyn assured him, a shark-like smirk crawling onto her lips as she clapped her hands together in a business-like fashion; while Martin’s mouth clapped open and closed, and small reedy noises escaped, Deborah spared only a moment to realise that she still had no idea what Carolyn had wanted in the first place, and apparently, neither did she, “I think she has something planned.”

With that Carolyn strode past Martin’s frozen form, clapping him on the back as she passed, and disappeared through the open door without a backwards glance, pausing only to push it shut behind her. Deborah stayed where she was, winding her fingers together and uncertain of what she could say that wouldn’t tip the delicate balance of Martin’s nerves as he placed the bag he was carrying on the floor and turned, swallowing hard, to address her.

“Were you wearing that when you opened the door?” Martin inquired, his finger pointing up and down to encompass the sparse entirety of Deborah’s attire; of course he couldn’t just interrogate her properly, Deborah mused fondly, swallowing down her sheepishness.

“No, I put it on specially for Carolyn.” She drawled sarcastically, feeling triumphant when Martin smirked and took a slow step towards her, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck as his eyes moved once again from her toes to the top of her head, returning to the same few spots, “Of course I was wearing it – which is why it’s not my fault that she knows now…it’s yours for not being here on time.”

“Well I’m _sorry_ I wasn’t expecting some sort of explicit reception.” Martin exclaimed dryly, snorting a little at his own jokes; he stepped a little closer, and Deborah took the initiative and moved close enough so that the tips of his fingers could glide over her waist, and she could stroke her hands over the curves of his elbows, while he dragged his lips through his teeth and asked softly, “So she was, um, she was okay…with us, I mean?”

“Yes, she was fine.” Deborah replied drolly; she abandoned any semblance of coyness that she had been imitating and simply stepped forwards into Martin’s arms, slipping her own up and over his shoulders so that she could take whatever comfort she could from being held, just for a moment, “But by tomorrow Arthur will know, so I’d be more worried about that.”

“Hmmm…you look _incredible_ by the way.” Martin hummed, tucking his head in atop hers and hugging her gently; Deborah bit her tongue and laughed silently, shortly, at the typical way in which he was distracted from the matter at hand, even as he leaned back to take a look at her face and ask tentatively, “And, um… ‘girlfriend’?”

Deborah laughed, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead tenderly against the crook of Martin’s momentarily; then she slipped from his grasp, and turned with a flourish to drop onto her bed, shifting back until she could rest her leg atop it and smirk up at him.

“Oh, I don’t know darling.” She drawled, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly, relishing how Martin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, “I rather like the idea…it makes it sound so much more formal.”

oOoOoOo

To say that Arthur was excited by the news would have been an understatement. When Deborah and Martin arrived in the hotel restaurant for breakfast, Arthur had been shining so brightly that he could have supported a small planetary system had he so desired.

“This is _brilliant!_ ” he had exclaimed before they had even taken their seats; he leant across the table, hands clasped together and propped up on his elbows, cheeks almost non-existent beneath his wide grin, “I _knew_ you’d end up together, it was just a matter of time. You two are going to be perfect, I know – it’s so obvious that you’re in love! I have never been happier for anyone, in my life!”

As Deborah ran a hand through her hair and ducked her head, staring pointedly at the table top and feeling awfully like what she imagined teenagers must feel like when their parents gush about their achievements to strangers, Martin flushed and cleared his throat awkwardly, though no words came out, and hidden beneath his curled hand was a steadily glowing smile.

“Oh, Arthur, leave them alone.” Carolyn had scolded him, but although Arthur did as he was told and settled back down, Deborah was sure that Carolyn was sneaking glances at the two of them, as if trying to find out if the events of the previous night had been a hoax.

The flight back was normal…as were the next few days. In fact, to Deborah’s immense pleasure, everything was as it should have been, save for the added benefit of being in a romantic relationship with her best friend.

There was something wonderfully _normal_ about being able to get up from her desk, wander over to where Martin was sitting on the sofa with his files on his knees, and slump down beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist and knowing that she would receive a small kiss on her forehead if he was feeling receptive. And nobody said a word about it, except for the occasional sarcastic comment on teasing remark, which was to be expected of course, from anyone associated with MJN.

Karl had greeted Arthur’s surprise declaration (which he had only achieved by darting an arm over Deborah’s shoulder) with a short silence, and then hysterical laughter, his mirth echoing around the flight-deck.

“Well done Martin!” he had congratulated the blushing and stammering Captain while sighed and rolled her eyes, ignoring the warm fluttering in her chest, “How’d you manage that?”

The grounds crew had given her a few funny looks, but Deborah found that in general, they met her and Martin with a jovial sort of jeering, as one might when teasing their drunken mates in a bar; if anything, the shift in their relationship had allowed Martin to enter the ranks of the ‘men’ as far as the grounds people were concerned. Dave had even given his shoulders a playful squeeze and whispered something in Martin’s ear that made him blush and laugh stiltedly.

The only time that Deborah wished to go back to the way things were was fleeting, and occurred shortly after Herc arrived in the porta-cabin to take Carolyn to an opera, something that the other woman had been complaining profusely about for hours.

Deborah and Martin were seated behind their desk as Carolyn stormed around, making sure that everything was ready for her to leave; it had taken some heavy persuasion, but eventually Martin had convinced Deborah that if she did half of the paperwork, they’d make it home earlier.

“Congratulations, you two.” Herc declared as he came to stand on the other side of the desk, hands in his pockets as he smiled smarmily down at them; Deborah was able to resist the temptation to roll her eyes as she stopped writing, and Martin looked up with a pleased expression on his face, dropping his pen down, “I’m very happy for you.”

“Thank you, Herc.” Martin replied cheerfully, bringing his hands together to tent his fingers where they rested on the desk; when Herc nodded politely, smiling as if the comment were no bother at all, Martin turned to Deborah, “It’s very kind of you, isn’t it Deborah?”

When Deborah only reluctantly hummed in agreement, taking pains to appear as if the forms she were filling out were of the utmost importance, the men shared a despairing look, and Herc shrugged and wandered back over to Carolyn. But not before giving one last glance, and snorting under his breath.

“Hold on, what was that?” Deborah demanded as Herc moved to Carolyn’s side, taking her bag from her so that she could pile her arms with more things to be locked away where her employees couldn’t reach them; both of them paused, and upon seeing Deborah’s accusatory stare, sniggered, “What…?” then with a flash of indignant horror, she realised what was going on, “ _Carolyn_! You _told_ him? Why would you tell him, that’s not funny!”

“If I’m honest Deborah, you greeting me in your best lingerie is possibly the funniest thing you’ve ever done in the time I’ve employed you.” Carolyn sniggered, pouting sarcastically and shaking her head as she walked past their desk to place a stack of files in the cupboard to the side of the room.

“And much funnier than anything you _ever_ did when I knew you before.” Herc added, barely blinking as Deborah narrowed her eyes at him and imagined him bursting into colourful flames; he would probably make the most of that, even if it worked.

Deborah didn’t say anything; she tried, but couldn’t quite think of a good enough retort. Instead, she sucked up her breath, and glared at Martin, placing her palms against her desk and silently ordering him to ‘make them stop teasing me’.

Martin rolled his eyes, and the corners of his lips twitched, but to Deborah’s relief, he retained his clean slate as a good and decent partner.

“Come on, leave her alone.” He sighed fondly, looking between Carolyn and Herc; Deborah chose to ignore the almost conspiratorial glint in their eyes, as Martin was _trying_ to stand up for her, in as much as he ever did.

“Not a chance.” Carolyn replied gleefully; she paced back across the room to take her bag from Herc, and threw it over her shoulder with such a vigour that she might have been demonstrating her independence, as her expression grew more serious, and she turned on them, “Now, you’re to lock up when you’re finished here. Arthur’s hoovering GERTI, but when he’s done, I expect everything to be packed away, and not left wide open like it was last time I left you both in charge.”

Martin muttered his assent, and Deborah decisively gripped her pen tightly and made sure to put as much focus into her handwriting as possible until both Carolyn and Herc were clear from the building. When she heard the door clack closed, she didn’t even have time to look up before she felt Martin’s foot nudging affectionately at her calf.

A warm smile creeping onto her lips despite everything, Deborah lifted her eyes to meet Martin’s; with his hand sliding across the desk between them, and a comforting, apologetic tinge to his cheeks, she was almost ready to forget her discontent.

Until the door jammed open one last time, and Herc stuck his head through the gap.

“Oh, and I forgot to say before,” he remarked, apparently oblivious to the matching thin lipped stares of two people unhappy with the interruption; he simply smirked instead, his gaze falling particularly on Deborah, “ _Do_ enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And then he was gone, leaving Deborah regretting ever sharing anything personal with Carolyn; if things carried on this way, she would have to start telling Herc about some of the humiliating things Carolyn had done over the years.


	34. Interlude 14

**Interlude 14**

The lilting sound of voices, one low and stilted, the other high pitched and flowing unimpeded, filled the rooms of Deborah’s flat, and she couldn’t quite keep the little smile from lifting her lips as she tidied away the debris from Verity’s attempt at cooking her own breakfast.

Martin had arrived early in the morning with a neatly wrapped gift, having remembered that it was Verity’s birthday, and as Deborah greeted him with a grateful kiss and a brief hug, that Martin didn’t quite pull away from, leaving one arm wrapped around her waist, the little girl had eagerly torn into the package to release the books from their papery prison.

He had blushed as Verity had leapt up and thrown her arms around his waist, hopping and demanding that she be lifted to wrap herself around his neck, exclaiming while Martin hoisted her (with a little effort and a slight huff of exertion) into his arms that she ‘love, love, _loved’_ the second hand copies of Sherlock Holmes.

Deborah had rolled her eyes but watched without commenting, arms folded comfortably over her chest as Verity leaned in close and whispered something into Martin’s ear, which he met with a truncated laugh, rubbing over his lips with the curled fingers of his hand.

As Verity scuttled into the kitchen, Deborah had slipped up beside Martin, running her hand across his lower back, one eyebrow as she asked what her daughter had said to him; Martin smirked, and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Oh, she just said that I’m her favourite of all Mummy’s boyfriends.” Martin told her, his flippant tone doing nothing to hide the proud glint in his eye or the light spattering of red interspersed between his freckles as he leaned reflexively into Deborah’s embrace.

“Hmmm…she may have a point.” Deborah murmured; she rocked forwards on her heels to place a peck at the ridge of his cheek, and then left him smiling coyly as she followed Verity into the kitchen, hurrying at the last moment to take the electric whisk away from the girl’s determined hands.

Now Verity and Martin were sitting either side of the coffee table, her propped up on the sofa’s cushions, him with his legs bent awkwardly to accommodate for the lack of room on the floor, chatting idly while Verity doodled in a pad of paper that she had taken to carrying around with her.

“Well I’m glad you had a good time.” Martin answered whatever Verity had just said to him; as Deborah watched them over her shoulder, she was overcome somewhat by a fizzle of affection at how patient he was with her, content to sit and fiddle with her coloured pens while she gave him only a portion of her own attention, “Not many eight year olds get to skip school on a Wednesday to celebrate their birthdays.”

“Yes, because I told Daddy that I had to have my party early in the week instead of today, on Sunday, when my birthday actually is, so that I could spend the weekend with Mummy instead.” Verity explained matter-of-factly; she lifted her gaze and her pen to point demonstratively at Martin, “I said, ‘Daddy, I’ve spent eight birthdays with you and Lizzie, I should spend my ninth one with Mummy, as it’s a big one’, and he complained a bit, but I was right, so he let me come on Friday night.”

“Nine _is_ a big one.” Martin agreed, humouring her, a small smile flickering over his face as he tried not to chuckle or snort; Verity flung a completed picture in front of him, and he continued speaking as he inspected the orange monstrosity that Deborah, wandering a little closer, assumed was supposed to be Martin, “You already look much more grown up than the last time I saw you.”

“That’s because I’m more mature now.” Verity remarked, nodding in approval at Martin’s judgement, before ducking her head down once again and returning to her pictures; Deborah crossed the last few feet between them, and came to lower herself down onto the floor beside Martin, tucking her knees underneath her and taking the picture from his hands.

“But not too mature for what we’ve planned today?” Deborah inquired, faking a gasp of surprise; on closer inspection, the orange figure _did_ appear to be Martin, as a carrot tinged titan sitting astride a plane that must have been held together by sorcery; she couldn’t be sure, but Deborah suspected that the purple fairy attached to the giant’s hand by a seemingly never ending arm might have been _her_.

“No!” Verity gasped, her eyes blowing wide as her palms met the table top with an imperceptible slapping sound, and she rose onto her knees to lean in childlike seriousness, “I still want to do that.”

Deborah nodded dutifully, placing the drawing down and pressing her lips into a pointed pout that she hoped would be viewed as vehement agreement rather than the forced back laughter that it actually was; that seemed enough for Verity at any rate, as she eyed the adults for only a moment more before turning once more to her pictures.

“So, um…where you going?” Martin asked, turning his head between the two of them; Deborah wasn’t fooled by the faux inquisitive crinkle of his nose, she could tell from the slight downward turn of his lips and the peaks of his eyebrows that he was missing them already. She couldn’t blame him; the thought that she might spend such an important day without him hadn’t even crossed her mind until late into the previous night after she had put Verity to bed.

“Well, as her father is coming to pick her up this evening so that she doesn’t miss any more school days, I’m packing as much as I can into Verity’s birthday, aren’t I darling.” Deborah made sure to turn to Verity as she spoke, and the girl nodded, but didn’t look up; when she looked back, Martin’s attention was as focused on her as his eyes were, taking pains to meet hers, “We’re going to the cinema to see that film everyone’s been raving about, and then we’re doing lunch at Pizza Hut, because _someone_ doesn’t want real home cooked food.”

“I want pizza.” Verity muttered, but other than that, she might not have responded at all, as she made no movements to the contrary.

“That sounds fun.” Martin remarked airily, nodding and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth; Deborah noticed how the fingers of one hand, the one that wasn’t propping him up on the floor, were tapping lightly against the table top.

“You can come if you want.” Deborah offered, raising a hand to brush affectionately over his elbow before dropping it back to the floor; Martin looked as if he were about to protest, so she cut him off before he could even try, “I’d like it if you came, it would be nice.”

She thought that that would have been enough to convince him, a genuine show of emotion as she didn’t bat her eyelashes or pout, but simply held his gaze and made it clear that she _wanted_ his company; but Martin was already shaking his head imperceptibly, the curve of his lips twisting as his eyebrows dipped.

“No, I couldn’t.” he insisted softly, struggling to take his eyes from hers, trying to appear more interested in the pile of pictures that had accumulated, picking up another and sparing it only a sideways glance, “It’s a family day, I couldn’t intrude.”

“But you _are_ family.” Verity interrupted before Deborah could roll her eyes and say something sarcastic to mask the pang of resignation in her guts; the little girl pursed her lips, and lifted both hands, still wielding her pens, to gesticulate in small, measured motions, “Because now you and Mummy love each other, you’re not two people anymore, you’re one thing, like that’s how it works on the TV, and that’s a family, because now you’re a part of Mummy’s family, and she’s a part of yours, because you’re in love now.”

“Verity dear…” Deborah sighed, reaching across to gently lower one of her daughter’s arms with the tips of her fingers, feeling a slither of trepidation despite the re-ignition of the fluttering in her chest, like little warm moths trembling to start a race; Verity however, carried on.

“See, look, like in this picture I drew.” Verity rifled through the pile of paper, and found one that had particularly detailed colours and subjects, with barely a blank space save for where the sky must have been.

“Is that supposed to be us?” Martin asked, peering down his nose as the drawing wobbled a bit in the air; he reached out to still it, holding the bottom, and his expression grew more bewildered as Verity nodded proudly, “What are we wearing?”

“Wedding clothes.” Verity answered simply; Deborah opened her mouth, then shut it again quickly, swallowing hard instead on the lump that appeared in her throat, “Because you’re getting married – and here at the back is the castle you’re going to live in, so that I can have eight bedrooms, and swim in the moat with the crocodiles.”

“Wow…” Martin replied, inhaling shakily, though Deborah supposed that she only noticed because she was watching and listening to his every move, still and holding her breath, “That’s a lovely picture.”

“Yes, so you can come with us because you’re family.” Verity concluded, and with that she flung the picture across the table so that it lay with the other one depicting the Captain himself.

“That’s nice of you dear.” Deborah said redundantly, letting her eyes drop to scan over the table as her shoulders drooped; it felt a bit like she was on hold, anticipating an adverse reaction or an awkward excuse to leave.

For all of Martin’s talk of ‘friendship, passion, commitment’, and as often as he told her that he loved her, the moment that Deborah actually brought up moving forwards, moving in together, any inkling of the future, he retracted and pulled away and made sure that the conversation was changed immediately, without actually making any comment on the subject at hand.

She had no doubt that Martin _did_ love her, they were too happy for that, but still.

Which was why it was a surprise when Deborah felt a light pressure against the fingers of the hand that lay on the floor, and then the sensation of the back of Martin’s fingers curling around hers, cautiously, but certainly; still holding her breath, she glanced down at where their hands intertwined, and then up at Martin’s face. He didn’t look at her, still inspecting the various doodles that Verity shoved under his nose, but his cheeks were red and his jaw was set determinedly. Like being plunged into the ocean, Deborah was once again overwhelmed by a rush of complete love for him.

“Well, um…I suppose that if you really don’t mind, then I’d love to come with you.” Martin remarked, through a flawed facsimile of calm even though his throat bobbed and a faint flush tinged his cheeks; he shot Deborah a sideways glance.

“I don’t mind.” Deborah replied swiftly, her voice pitched lighter than usual as she curled he fingers more tightly around Martin’s; he jerked his head around, his eyes darting from their hands to her face, so she inhaled deeply and steeled herself, “Please come with us.”

Martin ducked his head as a smile crept onto his lips, and chuckled under his breath as Verity echoed her mother’s request; it was obvious that he was pleased, but sticking firmly to his principles and trying desperately not to show it. It occurred to Deborah that perhaps Martin _was_ thinking about the future, about being included, but that it was simply his damned pride forcing him away from the topic.

“Yeah…uh, yes, thank you.” Martin murmured, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, “Of course I’ll come with you.”

oOoOoOo

By the end of the day, Deborah was in a rather good mood, seconded only by Verity’s indestructibly sunny demeanour; the film had apparently been the ‘best in the world except for Mulan’, and she had taken on the role of authority figure in the restaurant, making executive decisions as to what each of them was going to eat and drink.

Verity had made sure that whenever they walked from place to place, she was holding onto both of their hands, swinging and skipping on the swing of their arms, making sure that the two of them remained close together, asking question after question about Martin’s family. He answered every time, and Deborah learnt more in an afternoon than she had in the nearly five years that they had known each other.

As Deborah had watched the two of them chatter (the conversation dominated by the little girl as Martin nodded where necessary and filled in the gaps), it had been difficult to stop musings from dancing across her mind about how good Martin would look with his own child, a little smaller, and a bit more gingery and far more pernickety.

And then she had caught herself, and forced the thought from her head; now that really _was_ getting ahead of herself. Of course, Deborah knew that Martin wanted children; the subject had come up a few times in the last few years, and there was no doubt that he wanted the perfect family life eventually.

But with _her_ …the fact that they were in love, and in a steady relationship did not necessarily mean that Martin would want to build his life around her; it didn’t take more than a sigh and a flurry of heat in her chest to realise that Deborah would give him whatever he wanted so long as Martin kept making her as happy as he did. Not now though, it was far too soon to even consider anything more when they barely talked about what they had.

Eventually early evening rolled in, and Chris arrived before Deborah had even made sure that Verity was ready to go home; the knock at the door came just as they were zipping up her suitcase, and Martin had been the one to open the door. She could hear their low pitched conversation through the walls, and hastily followed in Verity’s excitable wake.

Thankfully, the men seemed to be getting along about as well as anyone ever got on with Martin, even though Chris, as dark haired and stubbly as ever, seemed bewildered by the jumpy hyperawareness that Martin always seemed to carry on his back; Deborah had greeted him with as much enthusiasm was possible given that he was taking her daughter back to the other side of the country, smiling and occupying herself with making sure that Verity was wrapped up in her coat, moving as slowly as she could.

Deborah listened to the conversation as she knelt in front of her daughter, buttoning up the toggles while Verity fussed over her hair.

“So, you’ve worked together for a long time.” Chris was asking Martin, as he leaned back against the door frame, his posture screaming of a need to hurry up and go home, not that Martin noticed, “Do you reckon you’ll be sticking around?”

“You mean sticking around with Deborah?” Martin repeated, his eyebrows rising to meet his hairline in a show of surprise that was appropriate when one felt anxious in a conversation; Deborah pointedly ignored what was being said beside her and instead booped her finger on Verity’s nose, making the girl giggle as she then helped to pin back her hair, “Well, yes, I um, I hope so…that’s the plan.”

“Well then, I guess next time my daughter comes to stay we should go for a drink.” Chris suggested, a resigned smile curling his lips for only a second at the shock on Martin’s face; he continued, hands in pockets, “That way I can get a good idea of what you’re like.”

“Oh, I see.” Martin exclaimed, nodding hastily, his bottom lip dragging through his teeth, and rocking on his heels; Chris seemed to realise what Martin was thinking as seemed to gain a slither of energy, and raised his hands into the air.

“Nothing like that, don’t worry – Verity’s talked a lot, and you seem like a nice bloke.” Chris assured him; while Martin sighed in relief, Deborah rose to her feet, letting Verity move to her father’s side, “It’s just that if we’re going to be seeing more of each other in the future, we might as well start building some bridges.”

“That sounds nice.” Deborah remarked, coming to stand beside Martin, slipped her hands through to rest on the crook of his elbow, leaning into his side for comfort; now that everything was packed, and they were standing in the doorway, prolonging the goodbyes was starting to become painful, “But you can discuss that later…if you don’t get a move on you’ll miss Verity’s bedtime.”

“Of course.” Chris agreed, becoming reluctantly business-like, the relief making him sag slightly as he immediately began to herd their daughter towards the door, flicking it open and attempting a stiff smile.

The farewells were short, and uncomfortable, and the only bright spark was Verity’s gratuitous demonstrations of affection, taking care to hug both Deborah and Martin twice before she skipped from the flat and towards the car, her father close behind, keeping an eye on the street.

Once they were gone, and the door firmly shut, Deborah didn’t say a word, but stood, with her arms wrapped around her chest, looking sadly at the space that had been left behind; she was peripherally aware of Martin shifting at her side, but couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge him.

“Today was good.” Martin remarked; from the corner of her eyes Deborah saw him shuffling his feet, but when she didn’t turn to look at him, she heard Martin sigh, and felt the warmth at her side as he moved closer, and an arm slipped over her shoulder, “Oh, come here.”

Deborah moved immediately into his embrace, and let him wrap her arms around her, tucking her against his chest; grouchily, she unfolded her arms and brought them around him, frowning as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder. She wasn’t in the mood for talking, and to his credit, Martin seemed to sense that as he began to stroke small circles on the small of her back. That didn’t stop him talking to _her_ though.

“I know that you’re sad now, but you did really well today.” Martin told her, murmuring in her ear; he was juddering slightly as he always did when there was a bounce in his tone, and he was trying to make her see the bright side of things, “And – and, I realised when we were out, that we’ve been together for exactly six months today, so it’s nice that we spent the day all together.”

“Not particularly romantic though.” Deborah muttered, her voice muffled as she slumped into him, sighing and closing her eyes; the idea did add a lift to the downward tilt of her mood, but warranted little more than a little reciprocated affection, “I know Verity had fun, but it wasn’t the sort of day that we would enjoy ordinarily.”

“It’s not that late.” Martin retorted, allowing Deborah to pull away and holding her at arm’s length, his face scrunched as if he were scheming, his eyes narrowed as he stared into the middle distance, “I’m sure we could knock up something…some kind of picnic? Or maybe just dessert?”

“A picnic?” Deborah repeated wryly, quirking an eyebrow at him; then just as his face was falling and the tangible thrill in his limbs drooped, she was struck by an idea that had been rolling around her mind for years, caught as if it were bursting into life from the recesses of her psyche, making her slide her hands to grip at his upper arms, and address him determinedly, “That’s a wonderful idea Martin; brew some thermoses full of coffee, and fetch your coat, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” Martin’s eyebrows knitted in the centre as Deborah stepped backwards from his grasp and turned on her heel, treading swiftly towards her bedroom; he took a few steps to follow her, but Deborah raised her hands into the air, stopping him in his tracks, “Where are we going?”

“Just wait and see!” Deborah called over her shoulder, battling to stop her smirk from turning into a grin; he was still suspicious to a tee, but the pleasant surprise on his face whenever she proved him wrong was worth every second, “You’re going to love it.”

oOoOoOo

At first Martin had protested at the idea of wandering onto the airfield outside of work hours, but his protests were weak, and even as they left his mouth, he walked by Deborah’s side, making no effort to stop or deviate from the path that she had set. There was something about having his hands full of thermoses and a blanket that apparently sapped him of his ability to argue with any vehemence, as if the key to his power was wild gesticulation.

He had been even more scandalised when Deborah had asked him to help her clamber onto the top of the porta-cabin, but she simply kissed him briefly and Martin had sighed, rolled his eyes, and placed his cargo onto the ground so that he could help lift her into the air; dragging him up after her was a little more difficult, but they managed it.

Sitting back on the blanket that they lay down on the flat roof of the porta-cabin, Deborah was completely content with Martin’s solid weight pressed against her side as they watched the little Giles G-202 jet turn rickety circles in the air, soaring up and down and round and round erratically.

Any other night Deborah might not have even bothered coming, as there weren’t many regular pilots in Fitton, but miraculously, there was at least one insane pensioner with far much more money than sense, and a fifty year old pilot’s licence; apparently he had always wanted to be an aerobatic pilot, so was using his retirement to practice, taking advantage of late weekend evenings.

Sometimes when their work kept them late of a Sunday night, Martin and Deborah would watch him from the window and laugh, but from this angle, it was much better; the first thing that Martin had said was that the airfield was beautiful from up there (Deborah thought that that was a tad too far, but didn’t mention it).

“Okay, Martin, I’ll make you a bet.” Deborah remarked, tilting her head back to drag her eyes over his face as he grinned down at her the moment her voice met his ears; she nodded towards the wobbling aircraft, which was emitting an odd sort of buzzing, “We know he’s going to crash, he always does, but I bet that this time, it’ll be the landing that he messes up.”

“Oh, really?” Martin replied, mimicking severity, lips pouting as he glanced away from her face to clock where the plane was now, “Because I thought that he always pulled the landings off quite well – it’s the fancy descents that get him.”

“Alright then,” Deborah drawled, almost feeling herself grow with the warmth that rippled through her veins in response to the pleasure Martin’s consent to her games instilled; she curled a little closer, letting her furthest hand fiddle with the edge of his jacket, “I bet you a home cooked dinner that our ambitious pilot will fail when he tries to execute a showy landing, and spins off the runway. He seems to be in that sort of mood.”

“So if you win I cook a meal, but if I win you cook one?” Martin verified, scrunching his nose, the corner of his lips pinching; Deborah nodded and hummed her assent, which made Martin’s eyes light up wickedly, “Okay – I bet that the landing’s fine, but that on the way down he ruins the descent by trying to perform a backwards loop.”

They watched for another half an hour, and when the pilot finally came down, he both ruined his descent, by trying to twirl but getting caught in the tailspin, and the landing, which ended in a sort of skid that left the plane facing the wrong way on the grass. Otherwise, he was absolutely fine, and vacated the aircraft with a pleased grin on his face, chattering excitedly as the grounds crew ran across the airfield to meet him.

As Deborah waited for her raucous laughter to die down, she rested her head on Martin’s shoulder, forehead on his neck, carried by the bobbing of his throat and the low rumbling heave of his chest as he struggled to tame his chuckles, gripping her waist tightly as if it might help calm him.

Martin sighed, a long drawn out sigh that rolled into a contented hum, and he lay back, pulling Deborah down with him and resting his cheek against the top of her head.

“I’m so glad we’re friends.” Martin murmured, his eyes falling closed as he inhaled deeply; it might have been the weight of the day and exhaustion talking, but Deborah felt lighter than she had in the entirety of their relationship, as if that one proclamation held more meaning than all of the declarations of love.

“Well, you’ll have to thank Carolyn for that.” Deborah muttered in response; Martin’s hand came up to push her hair from her face as his eyes opened and he shifted his head back to peer at her through bewildered eyes, but Deborah caught it in hers, bringing it down to rest over his chest, “She’s the one that hired you and cheated you out of a proper wage.”

“We’ll have to buy her flowers.” Martin joked, letting out a truncated snort; the rush of warm air brushed past the back of Deborah’s neck, making her snuggle into his embrace even more.

It was irrational, she knew, but with everything else, the absence of her daughter after spending the weekend together, the dismissal of their suspected stagnation, and the moths that Martin sent flurrying within her chest, Deborah couldn’t resist the pang in her throat that made her want to burrow into his hold and cling there, never moving. Even from within her madness, Deborah knew that she should have been ashamed by how far her suave, strong demeanour had deteriorated into near reliance…but from where she was, there seemed to be no reason to try and take it back.

“ _God_ , I love you.” Deborah inhaled sharply and exclaimed in a gasped release, and closed her eyes against his shoulder, squeezing tightly and cherishing the familiar scent of his cologne, worn mostly away by the hours of the day; she said it again, just above a whisper “I love you so much.”

When Martin replied, he sounded confused, concerned, but completely honest, as if he were comforting someone who had misspoken, as if he didn’t really need to say anything at all; his arm pulled more firmly against her, but even though Martin meant what he said, Deborah wasn’t sure that he understood the gravity of what he was replying to.

“I know Deborah, I know…I love you too.”


	35. Interlude 15

**Interlude 15**

High in the air and still half way across the Pacific, the atmosphere on GERTI wasn’t the brightest it had even been; in fact, things were slowly stumbling into the grounds of boring, and even Martin’s thoughtful murmurings as he tried to think up a game of his own didn’t do much more than maintain a stagnating quiet.

An elderly couple had moved from New York to Hawaii, and had somehow managed to hire MJN to fly all of their possessions to their new island home; how they had discovered the company was a mystery, but Carolyn’s usual eye rolls and scoffs were absent. If Deborah hadn’t been too wrapped up in her own happiness, then she might have said that Carolyn was behaving like the family of a loved one that was spiralling inevitably into its demise; as it was, she refused to entertain the idea that anything could permanently cripple MJN.

But it wasn’t just Carolyn who seemed a little dejected during that particular flight; Arthur, for all his smiles and interjections, only really spoke when it was necessary, and spent only the minimal time in the flight-deck as he needed to, turning down their offers of games with just a smile and not even an excuse.

“Okay, how about-” Martin began, taking one hand from the controls of point through the air between them, throwing Deborah a sideways glance; he looked eager and proud of himself, but Deborah was too preoccupied by Arthur’s droopy attitude to take pity on him as she was wont to lately, even with all of the tricks that Martin had been developing to get her to do what he wanted.

“If this is another game involving landing procedures and various airports then I’m not interested.” Deborah drawled, smiling fondly across at him nonetheless; as she sprawled back as best as she could within the constriction of her seat, she hoped that she gave off an air of suave tiredness with the current state of affairs.

“Not even if…?” Martin’s confidence didn’t waver even though his cheeks flushed a bit, making it clear that he still thought that he had even a chance at winning as he turned his head fully to cock his eyebrow and meet her eyes suggestively; his hand bridged the gap between them, and his fingers began to curl over hers, promising later treats.

“ _Naughty_ Captain Crieff,” Deborah scolded him lightly, withdrawing her hand from his and making a show of adjusting the controls slightly, keeping one eye on the defeated scowl that flashed briefly across his lips, “As if I couldn’t get that whenever I pleased.”

“Fine!” Martin huffed, though there was no real heat behind it; his shoulders sagged and he reached up to push the rim of his hat further down his forehead, securing it over his hair, “You can pick today’s game.” Deborah smirked, and Martin pursed his lips, waggling a finger at her, “Oh, you can laugh now, but next time we’ll be playing one of _my_ games, and I’ll be laughing when I win.”

“Whatever you say, Darling.” Deborah replied, allowing a low laugh to escape her lips as she settled back and began to scheme; Martin sighed deeply as he shook his head, but didn’t have time to say whatever it was that the devious scrunch of his nose promised.

The door to the flight-deck swept open, and Arthur bustled in, his arms full, hands occupied by the plastic mugs and a pack of biscuits tucked between his elbow and his chest; he was doing nothing that might suggest anything was wrong, what was worrying was what he wasn’t doing.

“Hi chaps! I have a Martin’s coffee, and a Deborah’s coffee.” Arthur raised each mug into the air as he named them, and placed them one by one into the cup holders, his smile growing a little wider when both pilots nodded gratefully and thanked him; then he dropped the biscuits into Martin’s outstretched hands and stood back, resting an arm over the backs of both of the seats.

“Hm, yes, this is good.” Deborah noted, taking a second sip of her drink, wrapping his fingers around the warmth that seeped through the solid exterior; she glanced over her shoulder to meet Arthur’s gaze, pleased to see that his expression brightened in surprise, “You got it spot on this time.”

“Really?” Arthur exclaimed doubtfully; Deborah glanced pointedly at Martin, who nodded quickly, making Arthur’s eyes light up and his chest puff out imperceptibly, “Well, I _have_ had years of practice.”

“It’s excellent Arthur.” Martin assured him through his teeth, placing his own coffee down; he exchanged another glance with Deborah, and then turned around to address Arthur, while Deborah took over watching the skies for him, “Do _you_ have any ideas for games?”

“Oh, yeah, lots.” Arthur answered simply, tapping his fingers over the back of their seats; Deborah thought that he didn’t sound as enthusiastic as he should have, but knew that she shouldn’t really spend too much time looking instead of focusing, even though she _did_ sneak a peek at his reminiscent pallor, “But I’ve already suggested them all to you, and you didn’t like any of them.”

“That doesn’t normally stop you.” Deborah muttered, loud enough for Martin to hear; feeling guilty in less than a second, she sighed, and pursed her lips, flicking a broken switch for the sake of something to do, “Well, what about funny stories? Do you have any of those?”

“Not any new ones, and you’ve heard all my old ones.” Arthur told them regretfully, shaking his head, definitely sounding far less chirpy than usual; with a small exhale, he pushed away from the seats and pressed his hands together, “You know, I’m quite tired today…I think I’m going to go sit in the cabin for a bit. Call if you need anything.”

With that he was gone, striding through the open door, letting it fall closed behind him before either pilot could bid him farewell; in his wake, there remained only the whirring hum of GERTI’s engines, and when Deborah turned back in her seat, it was to find Martin looking to her with dipped eyebrows and thin lips.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Martin inquired cautiously, his eyes flickering back to the rear of the flight-deck; his bottom lip slipped through his teeth, “He’s been acting a bit off since Monday.”

“I’m not sure…” Deborah replied thickly; after a moment’s thought, she rose to her feet and placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder, “You keep control, I’m going to go ask him, rather than ruminating in speculation.”

oOoOoOo

On her way through the cabin, Deborah met Carolyn in Row B; she could just about see Arthur’s head peeking out from over the top of the second to last row at the back of the plane. At the sound of her footsteps, Carolyn looked up from the paperwork that she had balanced on the fold out tray, and gestured for Deborah to stop.

“Don’t you have a difficult and rather important job to be doing up front?” Carolyn asked wryly, while Deborah folded her arms over her chest and looked down at her, deciding against sitting, “Or has the service bell just broken again?”

“I thought I’d come and visit Arthur actually.” Deborah remarked, stealing another glance towards the unusually quiet mass at the back of the plane; now that she thought about it, it _had_ been a while since she had gone out of her way to interact with Arthur. She could blame it on distraction, but Deborah couldn’t escape the pang of guilt in her guts.

“Oh thank god, perhaps you can talk him round.” Carolyn groaned, pushing her papers onto the seat beside her and placing a hand over her forehead in exasperation; that was either worrying or comforting, but there was little to sway the balance either way, “He’s been driving me mad since the weekend.”

“Is he alright?” Deborah asked, lowering her voice so as to not be overheard, though the last thing anyone would suspect Arthur of would be eavesdropping; she was reluctant to let Carolyn know that she was worried, but given the circumstances, she could endure.

“He’s fine,” Carolyn assured her, grouching as she stood and shuffled into the aisle; she peered briefly towards her son, but simply sighed, shrugged, and met Deborah’s gaze again, “He’s not sad, he’s just not particularly happy. Do something about that.”

Deborah nodded as she stepped aside to let the other woman pass, and watched Carolyn’s back until she disappeared into the Galley; once again she had been left under the assumption that she could fix all ails. Closing her eyes momentarily to make the most of a second of peace, Deborah wandered down the aisle to where Arthur was sitting, as nonchalantly as possible.

Arthur was slouched in his chosen seat, feet resting against the back of the seat in front, playing a shiny sort of game on his phone; he looked up and smiled when Deborah slipped into the seat beside him, and tucked the phone into his pocket, folding his arms loosely over his lap.

“You alright Deborah?” he asked, his eyes flickering over her inquisitively; Deborah nodded hastily, pursing her lips and pushing her hair behind her ears, but that only seemed to bewilder Arthur further, “It’s just I thought you were supposed to be flying the plane.”

“Martin’ll be alright on his own for a bit.” Deborah batted her hand through the air and quirked her eyebrows, aiming for flippancy; Arthur seemed to buy it, as he nodded in agreement, so Deborah clapped her hands together and plastered on a wry grin, “I thought I’d come and keep you company for a bit, see how you were…so…did you have a good weekend?”

There was no use beating around the bush with Arthur; he wouldn’t pick up on it even if she did, so going for the crux of the matter was the wisest choice.

“Oh yeah, it was great.” Arthur exclaimed, with more lacklustre than the statement required, and he didn’t quite meet Deborah’s eyes as the words left his mouth; instead, he watched his hands as he fiddled with his sleeves, “I spent most of Sunday with Lily, and then I dropped her off at the airport; she’s going to Italy.”

“That’s nice for her.” Deborah remarked, her voice pitched higher than her normal silkier drawl as she attempted to present optimism for once; Arthur nodded, and she rolled her shoulders back, shifting for the sake of moving, “So…that was good?”

“Yes and no.” Arthur stated shortly; his elbow jostled into hers as he shrugged nonchalantly, as if brushing away the thought, not quite lying, but failing to be any good at acting unconcerned.

“How so?” Deborah prompted, nudging back in a companionable manner; she didn’t want to push, but there was something truly unsettling about being around an Arthur that wasn’t cheery and unburdened by the weight of the world, “I thought that kind of weekend was the pinnacle of new relationships and their success.”

“Well, yes, because getting to drive her to the airport and see her off was exactly the sort of things that boyfriends do, especially when things are going really well.” Arthur explained, opening up without much poking; the corner of his lips threatened to curl into a frown, but Deborah thought he seemed more resigned and accepting that resentful, “And no, because when she left, that was sort of the end of the relationship, because she’s not coming back.”

“What?” it took some effort for Deborah to keep her tone calm and caring, and not to simply squawk in surprise; swallowing hard and steadying her breath, she pushed a hand through her hair and carried on, “Why isn’t she coming back? I thought you were doing well.”

Arthur shrugged again, and smiled briefly, seemingly unable to maintain one for more than a few seconds; apparently he wasn’t feeling up to much else.

“We were doing well – but you remember how months ago I told you that the library sent volunteers to Italy, and that Lily had always wanted to go to Italy,” Arthur explained, his voice laced with resignation, and yet, he still sounded perfectly interested in the subject matter, “well, she was offered a place by her boss, who said that Lily might even be so good that if she stayed in Italy for a while, she might get a permanent paid position, which would be good for inspiring her writing as well.”

“Oh, I see.” Deborah sighed sympathetically; she raised a hand to rest comfortingly on his arm, stroking her thumb over the inside of his elbow, “I suppose she grasped at the opportunity – I would have at her age.”

“No, she didn’t, she was going to stay.” Arthur corrected her, his eyebrows rising as they always did when he felt that he was the unexpected fount of new knowledge; as things currently stood, Deborah thought that he very well might have been, “But I convinced her that if it was something she _really_ wanted to do, then she should forget about me and go do it…so we spent the weekend together, and then I saw her off when she got on the plane.”

“Why would you do that!” Deborah demanded, throwing her hands into the air, barely taking half a second to let Arthur’s words sink in; instead, she was shaking her head, ready to roll her eyes at him and call him a clot, “Why would you just let her go after you spent so long trying to _get_ her?”

The ‘but I put so much work into the two of you’ went unsaid, though Deborah was sure that Arthur didn’t pick up on it.

“Because that’s what you do when you care about someone.” Arthur answered dryly, his forehead furrowing as he turned slightly to better face Deborah, increasing the gap between them; she almost pouted as she recognised the voice he used when he thought _she_ was being imbecilic, but restrained herself, “I told Lily to leave because I’d rather she was happy somewhere else than missing out with me.”

For a moment there was only the sound of the engines outside the window, and Deborah narrowed her eyes, scanning them over his face for any sign of deception; of course, there was none, no red cheeks, no loss of balance, or badly concealed grouching. The man _was_ actually okay with his decision; Arthur must have been more thick skinned than she thought.

“If you think that that was the right decision, then I can’t fault you.” Deborah remarked finally, patting Arthur’s arm one last time before retracting her hand and folding it back beneath her other one; she pursed her lips and looked away, “Not that I can understand it.”

“No, of course you don’t; you’ve never been in that situation.” Arthur snorted; Deborah supposed that maybe he really was okay with the way things had gone, and that perhaps he just needed time to mope, like other, normal people, “But I’m sure that if you were, you’d do the same thing.”

“I think you underestimate how selfish I am.” She muttered, huffing through her nose and pulling her arms a little tighter around her chest; the last thing she had wanted when coming to make Arthur feel better was an excuse for introspection, and now her generous mood was beginning to wane.

“No, I know how selfish you are.” Arthur chirped cheerfully, his cheeks dimpling as his smile grew and settled into a more genuine shape; Deborah quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing, “But I think that if Martin was ever offered something better than MJN, you’d make him take it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Deborah retorted, rolling her eyes and glaring at him without fully turning her head to face him; the back of the seat in front was far more fascinating anyway, “I’m not letting go of Martin any time soon.”

“Of course not, because he hasn’t got any better options at the moment.” Arthur concluded, as if that were a rational and decent ending to their conversation; Deborah smiled wanly in response to his proud grin, and decided that there really wasn’t anything wrong with him.

“Yes, well, so long as you’re alright I’m going to head back to the flight-deck.” Deborah announced, inhaling sharply and rising to her feet, sliding into the aisle to allow Arthur more space to sprawl, “The Captain’s probably going spare without me.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Arthur replied, shrugging and rolling his head to the side in a show of floppy casualness; perhaps it was a bit too forced, but Arthur _was_ an adult, and he was allowed his moments of introspection, “I reckon I just need to be alone with my thoughts for a bit.”

“Are there a lot of those then?” Deborah shot back, smirking as Arthur’s eyes glazed over momentarily, and then his face lit up as he caught one it was good to restore the natural balance of things.

“More than usual.” Arthur replied, and tapped the side of his nose, misusing a gesture that he must have seen somebody else using; he added a wink, and somehow it was enough to life Deborah’s spirits and reassure her as to her friend’s emotional state.

“Okay…” Deborah trailed off, rocking on her heels, still unwilling to walk away; she kept her arms securely over her chest as if that might help to centre her mind, but nothing came save for words of honest comfort, “…you know where I am if you change your mind.”

Once Arthur had responded with an affirmative statement and a nod, Deborah made her way back to the flight-deck, passing Carolyn in the Galley where she may or may not have been listening in from; they shared a brief, gravely redundant stare, and then went their separate ways.

Now that it was certain that Arthur was out of action so to speak, Deborah lost all hope of the flight becoming a cheerier and more entertaining occasion; the only way that that would happen was if Martin dreamed up something truly miraculous.

oOoOoOo

Since Deborah and Martin’s relationship had become public, Carolyn had taken great joy from the fact that she didn’t need to pay for separate rooms (despite the fact that she hadn’t been doing so for at least a year and a half); Deborah couldn’t fault her, as the slight non-change did mean that the company could remain mostly afloat.

In truth, the two of them barely noticed the sleeping arrangements on overnight flights; in the past two months, they hardly spent more than two nights a week in separate beds. Not because they were particularly ‘active’ (although, there were occasions that Deborah wouldn’t dream of divulging, as the honeymoon period still hadn’t quite simmered, as miraculous as that sounded). No, it was just that fact that more often than not, they’d spend the day together, or Martin would finish a van job only to make his way to her flat and pass out beside her.

While Deborah lay on her stomach, flicking through the television channels for some sort of repeat (there were always vintage shows on the older channels, no matter what country they were in), Martin lay back beside her, propped up against the headboard, one hand rubbing circles into her ankle while the other moved up and down, as he raised and lowered his book in agitation.

Deborah ignored the movement, knowing that Martin would only deny his behaviour until he was ready to divulge his distemper, he would; even so, the light pressure on her ankle was a tad distracting, and it made channel surfing that much more difficult.

“I keep thinking about poor old Arthur.” Martin declared abruptly, letting his book fall onto the covers beside him; Deborah pressed her lips together and rolled over so that she could sit facing him, their legs knocking together, “It’s sad that him and Lily didn’t work out.”

“Yes it is sad, but it was Arthur’s decision and he’s coping well with the repercussions.” Deborah replied drolly; she let her hand swing down to Martin’s, and took it in hers, giving him an encouraging squeeze to dissipate his angst, “Which means that it’s none of our business anymore.”

“I know.” Martin said hastily, nodding; his cheeks tinged pink, and Deborah quirked an eyebrow, making him huff in defeat and bite at his bottom lip, flinging his hands into the air either side of him, “It’s just – it’s like when someone else’s family members die, and you start getting clingy with your own. Arthur’s relationship died, and now it’s making _me_ sad as well.”

“Oh, _Martin_ , I’m not going anywhere.” Deborah groaned, rolling her eyes fondly and putting on an affectionate smile; Martin didn’t look convinced, so she released his hand and crawled over his legs, coming to kneel over him, letting her arms slide around his shoulders as his eyes followed hers, his hands coming to rest at her waist, “You’re stuck with me.”

“I know that.” Martin sighed, pulling her further onto his lap, into a tighter embrace, stopping just past the vicinity of a hug; Deborah stroked her fingers over his back, content to allow him just that piece of comfort before he shifted back, pouting sheepishly, “It’s still quite sad though…for him…”

Exhaling at length, and closing her eyes so as not to seem callous by rolling them, Deborah sat back on her heels, ignoring the dejected little sound that Martin made when the space between them increased; of course the day wasn’t over until _she_ had fixed everything for everyone.

Deborah pushed back her sleeve to glance at her watch face, and pursed her lips in thought, while Martin shifted and squirmed beneath her, relaxing into the mediocre mattress.

“It’s not too late in the evening.” She remarked dryly, smirking when Martin’s eyebrows knitted in bewilderment, “I suppose that if you knocked on Arthur’s door he’d be happy to pop down to one of the many bars the island has to offer and cheer the both of you up with some of those florescent monstrosities they call drinks.”

“That’s a great idea actually.” Martin murmured, the bridge of his nose scrunching adorably as he ducked his head and narrowed his eyes as if deep in thought; there was no doubt that he had been convinced, and Deborah waited patiently as he stirred up the impulse to ask in a tease, “Are you going to come along as well…as a sort of designated driver?”

“You mean am I going to come and make sure that the two of you don’t get so inebriated that you fall in the sea?” Deborah retorted, quirking an eyebrow sardonically; Martin sighed and shook his head, a small smile curling the corner of his lips, which made her chuckle lowly, and she leaned forwards again to pinch playfully at the sides of his chest, “I suppose I can, if you think that you’ll enjoy the colourful drinks _that_ much.”

“No, just, just so that you’re _there_.” Martin replied, flicking the back of his hand lightly against her waist, a coy smile stretching his lips into his cheeks, making the corners of his eyes crinkle; when Deborah didn’t reply immediately, he pulled her closer, until their noses were only an inch away, “Please…”

He was terrible at prevaricating, and Deborah could see straight through his mental stumbling; and yet, Martin’s unwillingness to be too far away from her, even for the sake of cheering Arthur up, was comforting, especially after the churning sense of introspection that she had purged earlier in the day. Still held gently and securely, Martin’s hands now resting one on her waist, one on her thigh, patiently waiting for her response, Deborah was grateful for his apparent synchronicity.

“Fine,” Deborah agreed, emphasising her faux exasperation as she swung herself from his lap, “Unless you’re going out in your pyjamas, I suggest you get dressed.”

Martin leapt up sluggishly, with the amount of vigour that was appropriate given a long day’s exhaustion and an hour or so of slouching around a hotel room, digging through his flight-bag for a pair of jeans and a shirt that made up his usual ‘casual’ wear when on trips.

While the sounds of Martin bustling around and huffing as he caught his toes on the furniture filled the room, Deborah reached across to take her phone from the bedside table and dialled the first third number on the recent calls list.

“Arthur!” Deborah exclaimed when the dial tone ended with a click, and her ear was filled instead with the sound of crackly echoes; she winked at Martin when he turned at the sound of her voice, nodding for him to carry on as he was, “Get your coat; Martin and I are taking you down the bar for drinks and a fun night out – our treat.” Then after a moment’s thought, “You can even bring your Mum if you want.”

The response was enough to convince Deborah of their impending triumph, and that even of Arthur was miserable now, he wouldn’t be for much longer.

“ _Aw, brilliant!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last interlude before Series 4, I promise


	36. Timbuktu

**Timbuktu**

One flight back to Fitton, and Deborah was already on the verge of just giving up and letting Martin do whatever he wanted while she watched the landing; they were in a good mood for once, and although she was bored, she watched her partner across the flight-deck with a gentle sense of fondness and affection for his quirking, jolly movements, and the proud little smirk that curled his lips into his cheeks, making his blue eyes glint in pleasure.

The last few days had  flown past with a cheery bounce beneath them, like seeds being wafted through the air; Deborah could only chalk this up to the freedom that the absence of Birling Day (and therefore any difficult scheming) produced, and the fact that she and Martin had discovered that they could be so much happier when they found a way to compromise at work.

So Martin allowed her games, so long as Deborah partook in his; normally she would have been against his particular brand of fun (especially as he designed all of his games so that she could never win), but apparently her resolve had been so worn down in their time together that she was actually _enjoying_ watching listening to him reel off various facts and figures, and watching him get more and more pleased with himself.

It was dreadful, but Deborah was just too resignedly content to argue with him.

“Do take your time, Deborah. Still everything to play for.” Martin announced gleefully, grinning toothily across at her; despite the fact that they were supposed to be landing the plane, he was so engrossed that he still had the manual open on his lap, “I’m only twenty-six points ahead of your three points!” he giggled again, and Deborah could only curl her hands around the controls and fail to hold back a faint, affectionate smile, “But-but I have every confidence you’re about to come roaring back!”

“Yes, all right.” Deborah sighed, settling back against her seat, prepared to throw herself into heavy manoeuvring if she was in dire need of distraction; even so, she couldn’t help but feel that he eyelashes were a bit too heavy as she looked across at Martin, all elbows and flushed cheeks, and that her gaze lingered too long for him to think that she was anything but reluctantly drawn into his game.

“But I am gonna have to press you for an answer, I’m afraid.” Martin continued, his tone seeped with superior pride as he teased her; at the sight of Deborah’s faux petulant pout he winked, and then beamed even brighter, gripping the manual’s covers against his palms.

“I don’t know.”  Deborah replied, making an effort to sound sulky, and to shake her head dismissively, letting her hand arc through the air nonchalantly, “At twenty thousand feet, I suppose about two hundred knots?”

“Ooh, what a pity!” Martin drawled, his voice high pitched and reedy as he feigned sympathy, but Deborah knew that he was basking in his glory, much to her despair, “It’s a lovely guess, but I’m afraid the answer on the card was two hundred and four knots! I win again! So that’s Martin on twenty-nine; Deborah … oh! Still on three …” Deborah had to bite her tongue as he chuckled gleefully, even though it prompted in her an unconscious smile and sent little flourishes through her chest, “… as we head into round two.”

“That was one round?!” Deborah exclaimed, sitting forwards and releasing the controls momentarily as she turned to gape at him; the little shit was enjoying dragging her along more than he was enjoying the game, she was sure of it.

“Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry. Round two’s much more fun.” Martin reassured her, badly; the only reason Deborah didn’t knock his hat from his head in a demonstration of disgruntlement was because there was something wonderful about seeing him so damn _happy_ and confident in their relationship, thrilled that she was letting him have his own way, “We say a fond farewell to the flight manual …”

“Thank God.” Deborah groaned in relief, slumping and taking her eyes off of Martin as he reached around to push the manual back into place; finally, some peace.

“… and we welcome instead our very good friend the operations manual!” Martin declared, now wielding another hefty book, smirking at the look of despair that must have spread across Deborah’s face.

“No! No, I’m sorry Darling, I’m done.” Deborah protested, sighing and raising her hands in surrender; no matter how much she loved him, there was a line beyond which she just couldn’t withstand it, and they had passed it hours ago. Lasting so long had simply been a kindness, brought on by her soppy demeanour.

“No-no, fair’s fair, Deborah.” Martin insisted, clutching the still closed manual against his chest; there was going to be no arguing with him, not now that he was so charged with fun, “You promised if I joined in with Flight Deck Buckaroo, I could pick the next game.”

“But I hate this game!” Deborah moaned, throwing her head back dramatically, resting her cheek against the back of her seat as he pouting pitifully across the gap between them; maybe, maybe she could win him over, suggest the possibility of something more fun later…

“Yes, and I hate Flight Deck Buckaroo.” Martin replied firmly, his expression set in a picture of determination; damn, he had his heart set on doing things his way.

“How can you hate Flight Deck Buckaroo?” Deborah muttered petulantly, forcing herself not to smile as Martin pursed his lips and frowned mockingly at her, his eyes going wide and dewy in a mimicry of herself, “It’s a terrific game! And it’s educational.”

“There is nothing educational about seeing who can disable the most instruments without setting off the recorded warning.” Martin stated dryly; he lowered the manual onto his lap, and his eyebrow rose as if he were judging her for her sense of humour. He probably was.

“Yes there is!” Deborah retorted stubbornly; she had to take a second to flick the controls, make sure that the plane wasn’t going to simply plummet, as her ‘oh so studious and responsible’ Captain was ignoring the actual flying for the sake of promoting his own game, “You find out all the things you don’t really need! Like altimeters.”

“No, this is educational.” Martin shot back, holding his chin high; Deborah sighed again as he lifted the manual into the air, and let it fall open between his hands, adopting  a dramatic and enthusiastic tone unbefitting the moment, “So, welcome to round two of Beat the Manuals!”

Like a divine sign that it was time to stop, the door to the flight-deck swung open, and Arthur emerged in the space left behind, hands pressed together at his front, looking inquisitively between them.

“Hello, chaps.” Arthur called out, wandering past the jump-seat to stand between their seats, glancing curiously at the manual that Martin had now lowered back onto his lap, still open to a page near the centre, “Any teas or coffees?”

“Oh, thank God!” Deborah groaned, like a parched woman shown water for the time; she turned enough in her seat that she could fling an arm over the back of it and grasp desperately at Arthur’s wrist, glaring wide-eyed and imploringly at him to save her from Martin’s stickling prison, “I’ve been waiting hours for you to come and save me.”

“Oh. Sorry, Deborah, you should have rung.” Arthur grimaced apologetically, patting her hand in what he must have thought was a comforting manner, and Martin rolled his eyes and tutted, shaking his head at them.

“Actually, we’re fine, Arthur.” Martin sighed resignedly, making sure to crinkle his nose at Deborah as he pointedly put the book back where it had come from, pushing his hat further onto his head when he re-emerged, “We-we’ll be landing in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, right-o.” Arthur replied, nodding and plastering on a smile, although Deborah thought that it was a little thin-lipped; he had probably been waiting for a chance to do something, after all, he had spent most of the flight in the back of the plane with no passengers, while she and Martin flirted in the front, “Oh, and a message from Mum. Er, she says how long until we land?”

“… Right.” Deborah muttered, turning back in her seat; Martin caught her eye, but didn’t have time to say what he wanted, as the flight-deck floor swung open again, and this time Carolyn burst through, her whole face pursed impatiently.

“Drivers, how long ’til we land?” she demanded, moving into the space the Arthur freed up by shifting to stand directly behind Deborah’s seat, his hands resting on the back as he leaned into it.

“I’m asking them, Mum!” Arthur retorted indignantly; Deborah shot Martin a look and a quirked eyebrow that basically boiled down to ‘you’re the Captain, you sort them out’.

“Not quickly enough.” Carolyn grumbled; she peered past her pilots at the view through the window, where they were beginning to see the horizon, and the ground looming slowly closer.

“We’ve just started the descent, Carolyn, so about twenty minutes?” Martin interrupted before Carolyn could continue grouching; he dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and wrapped his hands around the controls, as if that might protect him from her wrath.

“Excellent.” Carolyn chirped, smiling in that pleased way that she did, that made Martin exhale ain relief; she turned away from him, “Now, Deborah, I am having lunch with Herc. Can you give Arthur a lift home?”

Typical, Deborah thought wryly; she was glad that Carolyn was happy, she supposed, but that didn’t warrant using her as her personal chauffeur. Recently, Carolyn had been treating Deborah the same way that she treated Arthur; go here, do that, run around after my personal life. The sign of trust was flattering, but the novelty had worn off after about an hour.

“Sorry. Happy though I always am to pick up the pieces around your hectic love life, I’m afraid as soon as we land I’m driving to Twickenham.” Deborah explained, holding Carolyn’s gaze as she glared down at her, “I’ve got tickets for the rugby World Cup final.”

A few weeks previous, she had received a letter in the post from her brother, Archie, containing two tickets to the rugby, and a brief note saying that he had thought that she might appreciate them, and that they should catch up soon, as it had been too long. Martin hadn’t yet agreed to go with her, as he hated sports, but there were still a few hours to convince him.

“Cup final?” Arthur repeated; Deborah realised with a sympathetic pang that Arthur had probably spent months waiting for today to arrive, and it was only his natural cluelessness that meant he had forgotten the date, “But … doesn’t that mean it’s Birling Day?”

“Oh, Carolyn.” Martin drawled, pursing his lips and tutting at her, shaking his head, “Haven’t you told him?”

“Told me what?” Arthur asked; he was now looking between the three of them, eyes wide in expectation, gripping the back of Deborah’s chair as if the world were about to collapse around him.

“Arthur, there isn’t going to be a Birling Day this year.” Martin told him apologetically.

oOoOoOo

How wrong Martin had been; not only was it Birling Day after all, but he was already nice and soaking in alcohol, without having touched a drop of Talisker. It was a shame to have to miss the rugby live, but Deborah supposed that with a hefty tip, and the chance to have some fun fighting over the whiskey, the day may resurrect itself.

True, there was no whiskey to steal, but Deborah still had bottles of the stuff in her locker, and if she played the game right, she could earn herself a little profit on the side; if she was _really_ good, she could get Martin on side, and then that would be even better.

And then Martin had strode into the porta-cabin and shattered her dreams, so distracted that he apparently forgot that the door jammed, and slumped onto the sofa, stacking his arms atop one another as he revealed that Timbuktu was out of bounds for the foreseeable future.

While he and Carolyn bickered over what to do, Deborah rose from behind her desk and came to sit beside him, folding her legs beneath her and placing a soothing hand on the crook of his elbow. It seemed that there would be no schemes this year; damn.

“Wait! Hang on!” Martin interrupted, raising his hands into the air, palms out; even though he had been the bringer of bad news, his jaw was set, and the bridge of his nose crinkled in intense concentration, “We can’t just give up!”

“Well, you’re the one who said it was insolvable.” Carolyn exclaimed; she was leaning against the outer side of their conjoined desks, hands in her pockets, posture screaming despair at the potential loss of good money.

“By me, not by you two.” Martin argued, extending a hand between the two of them, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth; Deborah rolled her eyes at his unshakable faith in the fact that if he couldn’t do something, then everyone could, “There must be something we can do…oh, I could really use that two thousand quid.”

“I know, I know, but what can we do?” Deborah murmured drearily; she stroked her thumb over the inside of his arm, squeezing comfortingly in an attempt to cheer him up. Seeing him so pleased at the prospect of such a large influx of money had been lovely, but having that taken from him, it was going to take a lot to resurrect his good mood.

There was a moment of silence, in which Deborah rested her head against Martin’s shoulder, Carolyn pressed her hands together and peered over the tips of her fingers in thought, and Martin huffed, rubbing a curled hand over his chin. Deborah vaguely remembered an echo of the word Timbuktu, though she couldn’t quite recall who had been telling her about it, nor why it was of importance.

“Well, I don’t … I don’t suppose …” at the sound of Martin’s voice, tentative and devious, as if he were doubting his own idea, Deborah sat back, just far enough that she could keep her hands on his arm, waiting with raised eyebrows for him to finish, “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere that’s a bit like Timbuktu?”

“What, d’you mean also famous for being far away?” Carolyn asked, blinking across at him in confusion, clearly not understanding what Deborah was understanding in that moment.

“No-no-no, I didn’t mean that.” Martin replied hastily, he sat a little straighter, and swallowed sheepishly, his face pinching like a schoolboy’s trying to excuse a petty misdemeanour; Deborah inhaled slowly, gaping in pleasurable surprise as comprehension dawned, and her fingers gripped more tightly around his arm, “I mean, like, it … as in … looks like it, a bit, if you didn’t really know much about Timbuktu.”

“Martin?!” Carolyn remarked in surprise, staring at him as if he had grown an extra head; or perhaps, borrowed someone else’s for a moment.

“ _Martin!”_ Deborah drawled salaciously, holding herself at arm’s length, running her eyes over his face, then down, and back up again, back straight as she inhaled sharply, her breathing becoming slightly more laboured; if the scarlet flush of his cheeks, and the way his eyes widened only to narrow as if caught on hers, were any indicator, then Deborah _did_ sound just as lustful as she thought she had.

 _There_ is was, the wicked little streak, the one that had first caught her attention; _god_ , she hadn’t even allowed herself to think it before, but _now_ , oh, she could just throw him down and do terrible things to him…or vice versa.

“No, I know, I know, I didn’t mean it.” Martin groaned, shaking his head and backtracking immediately, misjudging her tone, although he kept glancing at her from the corner of his eyes, “I’m just … I’m just trying to, you know, come up with ideas.”

“No, Martin!” Deborah gasped seductively, placing a second hand on Martin’s arm and shuffling closer to him on the sofa, her tongue darting out to wet her lips; she wasn’t going to let him go back on his word now, “That’s _inspired!_ ”

“Is it?” Martin inquired, evidently disconcerted as his eyebrows leapt up to his hairline, and he peered down at her; he gulped when he stare didn’t waver.

“You’re a _genius_!” Deborah drawled, leaning in a little closer, lessening the gap between them until she could slip one hand over his knee, tracing circles with the tip of her finger, “An unexpectedly _evil_ genius!” she lowered her voice so that only Martin could hear, “I don’t think I’ve even been more attracted to you.”

“You mean you know somewhere that we could …?” Carolyn interjected, breaking into the tension between them; the heat raging in Deborah’s chest didn’t fade even an inch, and she didn’t take her eyes off of Martin’s, barely even turning when she addressed the other woman.

“Oh, plenty of places!” Deborah replied dismissively, waving a hand flippantly towards the desks, a smirk lifting the corner of her lips, “There’s a little airfield on the island of Sardinia, for instance – Guspini. It’s perfect! It’s on the edge of the second biggest desert in Europe, and the chap who runs it is an old friend of mine.”

“Of course he is,” Martin muttered, rolling his eyes; he still didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes from hers, sitting stiffly an inch from the back of the sofa, but his fingers were still twitching, and Deborah knew that he was still worried about the idea that he had just put forward, in such a deliciously Martin-ish way.

“Couple of hundred Euros and I’m sure he’ll be only too pleased to be Timbuktuan for an hour or two.” Deborah remarked wryly, “Three hundred and the engineers can probably knock up a ‘Welcome to Timbuktu’ sign.”

“No, but that’s fraud!” Martin insisted desperately, turning when he sat to face her properly, his forehead wrinkling with the effort of carrying the weight of his Captainly panic; it was too late though, there was no backing out now that the ball was rolling.

“Isn’t it, though?” Deborah drawled smugly; oh, it was wonderful getting to play with him like this, almost thrilling in fact, first the prospect of a scheme to end all schemes, added to the plan that was slowly bubbling at the back of her mind, melding with the rush of affection that surged through her veins, “That’s why I’m so delighted _you_ suggested it, Darling.”

“I didn’t mean …” Martin spluttered, withdrawing his arms from Deborah’s grasp and instead gripping her hands, turning to glare imploringly at Carolyn, who shrugged and made an ‘I don’t know’ face, “I-I wasn’t seriously …”

“Oh, don’t spoil it!” Deborah begged, ignoring Carolyn as she pushed away from the push and tread to stand beside the sofa, looking between them and pointedly not mentioning how close the two of them were.

“Deborah, look: it’s a nice idea, but we cannot possibly …” Carolyn began to say wearily, shaking her head, but Deborah cut her off, finally turning away from Martin to sit forwards on the sofa, though she didn’t retract her hands.

“Look, Birling’s always roaring drunk by the time we land anyway, and all he wants is a room to watch the rugby in and a sign saying, ‘Welcome to Timbuktu’,” Deborah argued determinedly; they hadn’t had any real, rule breaking, fun for ages, and she wasn’t going to let it go now, “both of which Sardinia can provide – and neither of which, incidentally, Timbuktu can provide.”

“But won’t he be a bit suspicious that everyone speaks Italian?” Carolyn asked, still looking unconvinced; all of her fears were rational, but solvable too.

“Why would he be?” Deborah exclaimed smoothly, shrugging flippantly and plastering on a nonchalant smile; if there was one thing she could do, it was spin a convincing tale, “Mali was under Italian rule for decades.”

“Oh. Was it?” Martin chirped; one look at his face, and the imperceptible slackening of his shoulders was enough to show that he was already being won round, much to Deborah’s pleasure.

“Of course not. But if you didn’t know that, why would he? It’s a great idea, honestly!” Deborah chuckled, giving Carolyn one last wink before shifting until her knees bumped against Martin’s, and lowered her voice into a seductive drawl, batting her eyelashes at him, “I don’t know whether I’m more proud of you for thinking of it, or worried that I didn’t.”

Martin’s cheeks once again filled with blood, and he cleared his throat, a deep sound that Deborah was sure she had heard more in the bedroom than in the flight-deck, where he was always too high-strung for such allured coyness. Deborah smirked as he looked away, pausing only to scrunch his face pointedly at her, and pull his hands away; if that wasn’t an order to behave then nothing was.

“I-I suppose if we got him really drunk …” Carolyn suggested, rubbing her hands together in thought; once she was on side, there would be no going back.

And then that was that; Carolyn refused to buy the Talisker from Deborah, and whirled away to fine where Arthur had taken Mr Birling, calling over her shoulder for Martin to file a flight-plan and for Deborah to get GERTI ready. Which gave them plenty of time.

As Martin rose to his feet and strode over to their desks, leaning over to shuffle through his papers and find the correct document, Deborah followed, sneaking up behind him and prodding one side of his waist, dipping her hand beneath his open jacket and then stepping back as he spun around.

“What are you-” Martin asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion, but he barely had time to react before Deborah leapt at him, pressing her lips passionately, filthily against his, running her hands from his chest, over his shoulders, through his hair, back again, making him groan in shock as his hands flapped around her.

Deborah pulled back, slipped forwards into his arms as he wrapped them around her, pinning her to his chest even though he leaned back to peer, dazed and baffled, down at her, his mouth opening and closing.

“You’re a magnificent schemer, I _love_ it when you break the rules.” She told him in a stage whisper, only peripherally aware that there were other people on the airfield; without further ado, she kissed him again, caught by a rush of dizziness when he responded just as eagerly, only to startle and tilt his head away.

“Um, that’s great – really, it is, but um, we’re supposed to be working!” Martin insisted, placing his hands over hers and deliberately lowering them into the air between them; he wasn’t putting up much of a fight, “We’re about to pull off a major crime, and I can’t allow myself to get distracted.”

“On the subject of crimes, dear, I wanted to invite you to join in mine.” Deborah talked over him, shaking her head and pursing her lips, quirking an eyebrow and silently transmitting that he need not panic at all, as she curled her fingers over his and pressed closer, making him squirm pleasantly, “I want Carolyn to pay to get that whiskey from me, and the only way to do that is with my wonderful _partner_ in crime.”

“No Deborah, absolutely not-” Martin retorted, snorting derisively as if she were going mad; he still didn’t push her away though, and it wasn’t hard to tell that he was _very_ interested in the goings on, despite his protests, as he shifted until he could rest his weight ever so slightly on the desk behind him.

“ _Martin_ , I’m inviting you to join in my _scheme_ ,” Deborah murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to the ridge of his cheek, chuckling when he pouted petulantly, with no real heat behind it, “think of it as a couple’s activity…some people go cycling, or water-skiing, we do _this_ , it’ll be fun, and beneficial to both of us.” Martin made an effort to turn his head away and blink down at their joined hands, which he lifted and examined, a small smile battling its way onto his lips; time for the clincher, “I don’t share my schemes with just _anyone_.”

“Well, I – I, it’s not professional, at all-” Martin stuttered, far too engrossed in simultaneously pulling Deborah closer, a heated and steady mass to cling to, and holding her away, inspecting her hand whilst his eyes flickered over her expectant features; then his face slackened, and he rolled his eyes, “I suppose, I _could_ …but, um, o-only if you kiss me like _that_ again, ‘cos, that was- _wow_ …”

Deborah felt her face stretch into a wide, devious grin, and her chest to the tips of her fingers roared with flaming moth-light touches as she lurched forwards and wound her arms tightly around his shoulders, feeling them shift and move under her arms as he wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging at her back and plunging his mouth against hers, kissing longer and harder and messier, barely stopping for air, releasing small hums, chuckles, groans, whatever it was that made it through the flurry of sound in Deborah’s head.

At the sound of the door cracking open, Deborah stumbled backwards, allowing Martin the time to brush down his jacket and run a hand through his hair; there was little point, as his cheeks were flushed, his lips red, and his uniform out of place, as was hers, and though there was at least three feet of distance between them, Mr Birling was already in the room, blinking between them through a drink addled haze.

Running a hand through her hair, and another down the buttons of her shirt just in case, Deborah met Martin’s wide eyed gaze, only to find that he was no help whatsoever, standing there gaping gormlessly, hands in pockets; so she shrugged helplessly, and folded her arms tightly over her chest, waiting to see what the man would do.

“Oh, Debbie…” Mr Birling slurred, rolling his head in despair as he wandered further into the porta-cabin; that didn’t sound quite as shocked or affronted as she had expected, so she simply said nothing, “Please tell me you’re not dating your chump First Officer, that would be a horrible thought, you were the only sane one here…”

“I’m the Captain!” Martin squawked indignantly, reaching onto his desk to take his hat (which Deborah hadn’t noticed had fallen from his head) in his hands and step forcefully to Deborah’s side, his jaw set; there was something poetically dour about the fact that _that_ was what he had picked up on as he watched the old man slump into the middle of the sofa and frown when it dipped too far.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you Mr B, but Martin and I _are_ together,” Deborah explained, waving a hand to the side, fingers colliding with Martin’s chest, motioning for him to go and get the paperwork sorted; he let out a small huff, but disappeared from her side, and she could hear him making a little too much noise as he shoved things across his desk, “and very happy, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t suppose it’s some weird sort of Stockholm syndrome?” Mr Birling inquired, peering up over the end of his nose; to his credit, he did seem almost concerned, in a drunken, bewildered and belligerent manner.

“I’m afraid not.” Deborah replied regretfully, making sure to smile indulgently, as Mr Birling liked.

“Oh, fine.” Mr Birling scoffed, as if it were a heavy burden to bear; he rolled his eyes and exhaled a long drawn out breath, dragging his eyes blearily between the two of them, frowning, “But I don’t want to see any more… _kissing_ …no more soppiness!”

Deborah agreed, nodding and grimacing appropriately, and went about preparing Mr Birling for the flight; she was able to keep a straight face right up until the moment where she heard Martin muttering that ‘ _I’ll kiss her all I want, I’m Captain- I’ll do it for the whole flight, then we’ll see who’s laughing- not the First Officer’._

oOoOoOo

The flight had gone as well as could have been hoped given the circumstances. True, Martin may have had a minor anxious breakdown and refused to play her games, and they had to keep lying to Arthur lest he reveal what was going on…and perhaps refusing to sell Carolyn the Talisker straight away meant that Mr Birling wasn’t as drunk as he could have been, but they were doing well…so far.

Despite her confidence in the scheme, Deborah couldn’t help but feel a slither of doubt about the success of the whole thing. It had been nice that Martin had held her hand all the way from the plane, and throughout the entire failed correspondence with ‘Mandela’ as he was now dubbed, but that didn’t change the plummeting security of her plan.

Carolyn had vanished the moment that they made it into the airport, so for the sake of his sanity, Deborah had dismissed Martin on a mission to find out what she was up to, and potentially trick her into purchasing the fake whiskey that they had hidden earlier in the day. He could do that, she had faith in him.

Now all Deborah had to do was convince Mr Birling to stay in front of the television until it was time to leave; the only problem was that Wales was losing dramatically, Giancarlo was cheering triumphantly, and it was only half an hour into the match.

“Oh, come on Mr B, it’s still fun to watch.” Arthur insisted, gesturing for the old man to sit back down in the chair beside him; Arthur, of course, was enjoying the match regardless of anything else that was going on, even if he didn’t quite understand how the rules worked, “Look, someone just scored some more points and the crowds are cheering really loudly.”

“No.” Mr Birling grouched, shoving his arms into his coat despite the heat and roughly buttoning it up; to Deborah’s dismay, his hands were getting steadier and steadier, “I’m going back to the plane, and if you’re not there with me, I’ll go home without you.”

“Are you sure?” Deborah inquired, aiming for nonchalance, but fearing that perhaps she sounded too concerned as she rested her hands on her knees, arms ramrod straight as she leaned, ready to hop up from her own chair, “Wales might manage it yet.”

“No they won’t, and I can’t bear to see the land of my fathers lose.” Mr Birling retorted mournfully; when he was buttoned up securely, he shoved his hands petulantly into his pockets, and turned back to the two of them, pausing only to send a withering glare towards Giancarlo, “Now, Debbie, come and talk to me about the wonderful past, when Wales was victorious and there was none of this nonsense.”

So Deborah walked Mr Birling and Arthur back to the plane, as slowly as it was humanly possible, inwardly praying that nothing else go wrong.

oOoOoOo

While Carolyn had calmed a raging Mr Birling, Arthur had hidden in the Galley, and Deborah and Martin had remained sheepish in the flight-deck, sat in their seats as if prepared to fly, exchanging snippets of conversation that vanished the moment that they appeared.

“How much trouble do you think we’re in?” Martin asked in a hushed tone, as he fiddled with his epaulets.

“A fair bit, Martin, a fair bit” Deborah replied wryly, curling her hand around the nearest controls as she pursed her lips and traced her eyes over the fabric that lay around her knees.

“This is all my fault, isn’t it, I messed this up?” Martin insisted, gnawing at his bottom lip.

“No Martin, in hindsight, it would have been far more reasonable to tell Mr B that Timbuktu was off limits, and then fly him here anyway so that he could trick his wife, consensually.” Deborah drawled, letting the irritation with herself seep into her tone.

“When did you realise that?” Martin asked softly, curiously, turning to look at her across the flight-deck; he didn’t sound annoyed at all.

“About half a minute after he started shouting.” Deborah admitted, lifting her head to meet his gaze, scowling in resignation and pushing back the hair that the motion swept into her eyes.

When Carolyn returned, it was good news as far as the law was concerned, but Deborah could almost _feel_ the effect that this trip was going to have on the company; it wouldn’t bankrupt them, but it wouldn’t make their lives any easier. It might even make Carolyn swing back to her miserable pessimism.

“Oh, and, er, one other thing, Deborah.” Carolyn announced as she was turning to leave the flight-deck; Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, and rotated enough that she could see the other woman rifling through her bag, “I stole the Talisker from you.”

Carolyn re-emerged, holding aloft the Talisker bottle, a triumphant smile creeping over her lips and making the rest of her expression alight with victorious superiority; the bottle clinked against her ring, as she brought it back to hang in the air between the seats.

“Carolyn!” Deborah exclaimed, throwing her hand over her chest and feigning surprise; oh, he had done his job beautifully, she mused, “How did you find it?”

“I told her, Deborah.” Martin admitted, closing his eyes in faux shame and shaking his head, clenching his hands for emphasis, though the faint smile that threatened to bubble into his expression fooled no one.

“You told her?” Deborah demanded playfully, turning to glare in betrayed astonishment at him, barely able to conceal her smirk as the moths in her chest cartwheeled happily; moments like this were what made everything worth it. Why worry about Birling when she had a best friend, and partner in crime to go home to; none of the other men in her life had ever played with her like Martin would.

“Yes.” Martin replied dramatically, his eyes snapping open to meet her gaze, his bottom lip dragging through his teeth to stop himself from laughing as his fingers twitched where they lay on the arms of his seat.

“I see.” Deborah drawled; she kept one eye on Carolyn’s bewildered expression over the back of her seat, taking great pleasure from watching her clutch the bottle just a little tighter, “And how much did she pay you for that little betrayal?”

“Two hundred pounds.” Martin answered proudly, in a breathy tone as if he were withholding state secrets; then his smile broke its banks, and he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a few notes and extending them towards her, his eyes practically glittering with pride, “Here’s your hundred.”

“Thank you very much, Darling.” Deborah replied, taking the money from him and tucking it into her bra; just because he was being so good today, she’d make sure to accidently use it to pay for dinner, or maybe a nice day out, and say that entry was free, “You were magnificent.”

“What?” Carolyn demanded, her face contorting in confusion; she practically turned her back on Deborah so that she could glare down at Martin, letting the bottle hang in the hand that wasn’t poised over the back of his chair.

“Really sorry, Carolyn. But what I’ve actually learned after five years at MJN is never to side against Deborah on Birling Day.” Martin winced apologetically, shrugging his shoulders and raising his hands into the air either side of him; Carolyn huffed, but Martin’s eyes softened, and he leaned forwards to better gaze across at Deborah, his smile growing warmer, “And besides, there’d be no living with her if I let her lose.”

“See, you can’t corrupt him anymore.” Deborah remarked, glancing pointedly at Carolyn and winking at Martin; the way that Martin squirmed bashfully as he was talked about made her heart want to leap from her chest, “He’s mine.”

“Well I’ve still got my whiskey back.” Carolyn retorted stubbornly, lifting the bottle again to almost clutch it to her chest, exuding an air of defiance not befitting to the occasion; Deborah smirked openly, and shook her head, tutting at her employer’s ambition.

“I’m rather afraid, Carolyn, that while you may have stolen the Talisker, you didn’t steal …” Deborah cut off her dramatic exclamation, even though the dawning horror on Carolyn’s face was golden, and reached across the small gap to tap Martin’s arm, “oh, could you pass me the operations manual, Martin?”

“Certainly, Deborah.” Martin replied dutifully, visibly trying not to grin until the corners of his eyes crinkled while he reached around and retrieved the hefty book with one hand, and then reached a little further to take the dark bottle in the other, bringing it into the light; as he dropped it into Deborah’s waiting arms, she concluded.

“… the Talisker-Talisker.”


	37. Uskerty

**Uskerty**

After spending three days in Cork, Deborah would have liked to get far away from Ireland and into her own cost bed to sleep for twelve hours, but alas, that wasn’t to be; she supposed that Carolyn’s search for the perfect gift for her _boyfriend_ would provide ample teasing opportunities now and in the future, so she accepted her orders without complaint.

It helped that Martin was helping her play as ruthlessly as he could without breaking what little professionalism he still maintained; sarcastic announcements over the cabin address were always perfect for lifting one’s spirits, and today was no exception. Carolyn could grouch all she wanted; it was her fault they were diverting in the first place.

When they reached the airport in Kilkenny, the ATC on the intercom sounded as if she had stared into the void of true boredom and retained the mental scarring, which should have been enough of a warning that the crew weren’t shocked to find that the airport itself was completely empty.

The lights were on, and the doors swished open when Carolyn and Arthur approached, but as Deborah and Martin followed in their wake, it was to find that the shining floors were spotless, and it was possible to see all of the walls without having to even turn their heads, or peer; at the increased warmth at her arm, Deborah was sure that Martin shifted closer to her, but she chose not to mention it.

“Er, h-hello?” Carolyn called out as the four of them moved to the centre of the airport, each turning to glance over different vacant seats and abandoned kiosks; or, perhaps, not abandoned, more, uninhabited Deborah mused, “Hello-o! Anyone home?”

“This is a bit spooky, isn’t it?” Arthur remarked, his eyes widening as he turned on his heels to walk backwards and take in everything around him, glancing occasionally at Carolyn so that he didn’t stumble; with a thrilled little smile, he met Deborah’s eyes, “D’you think it’s haunted?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, Arthur, no.” Deborah replied wryly, quirking an eyebrow at him. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Martin had slowed to peer disdainfully at the unmanned security desk as if it were doing him a personal injustice, so she tread back to his side and took his hand in hers, tugging him back to the group; he made no protest save for a muted huff, and continued looking around and maintaining his unimpressed silence.

“Well, you know, everything’s more ancient in Ireland, isn’t it?” Arthur continued, shrugging where anyone else might have been disappointed, spinning again to walk face the way that he was walking.

“Not the airports.” Deborah drawled shortly, pursing her lips and shaking her head when Arthur pouted at her; she could almost feel in his expression the beginnings of one of those days where Arthur ran away with his own interests. When the man got started, he was incredibly difficult to sway.

“Hello-o!” Carolyn called again, louder this time, raising her hand to her mouth as if to increase the volume; she glared in confusion over her shoulder at Deborah, as if she might have the answer, and was met by a shrug.

Then a door at the far side of the airport swung open, and a greying man in his forties burst through, throwing his arms out in over-excited welcome, his face almost glowing with the thrill that he was exuding.

“Hello, hello!” the man declared joyously, in a manner that befitted a coronation more than the arrival of a cabin crew; Deborah stopped at Carolyn’s side, tugging on Martin’s arm to make him halt as well, watching the man’s approach with a dawning exhaustion, “Ah, you’ll be MJN Air.”

Listening to the man, who introduced himself as Gerry, greet Carolyn and Arthur with far too much fervour, was funny was a moment, and then the novelty wore off; Deborah had spent years with Arthur already, and watching him converse with an equally cheerful, albeit people deprived airport manager, barely had its merits.

Instead, Deborah shifted closer to Martin, intertwining her fingers more securely through his, bringing the other hand up to curl around his bicep as he turned reflexively, so that they were pressed together just enough that she could murmur in his ear, but not close enough that it would have been inappropriate.

“What do you think she’s buying?” Deborah asked once Martin had ducked his head down, blue eyes meeting hers as he squeezed her hand, until they were just about level, “She must have ordered it ahead of time.”

“An obscure Irish delicacy?” Martin suggested, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth; he lifted his free hand to push back the strands of hair that Deborah had let fall over her face, smiling wanly as she pouted up at him.

“That she couldn’t get in the last three days we’ve been in Ireland?” Deborah drawled, raising an eyebrow with little energy; Martin tutted and shrugged helplessly, so she dropped her cheek down onto his shoulder and bemoaned, “God I’m tired; I just want to go home already.”

“Hmmm…” Martin hummed in agreement, resting his head against the top of hers, his eyes flickering across to the others, before resting once more on Deborah, his tone becoming warmer and more suggestive, “You wouldn’t mind if I joined you?”

“Of course not.” Deborah replied, wrinkling her nose as she leaned back, raising her head to address him properly; after nearly nine months together, what had at first been endearing, Martin’s reluctance to just accept that they were together and that he could take what he wanted, was beginning to feel taxing, and she couldn’t quite keep the frustration masked as humour out of her tone, “That’s what I meant when I said ‘go home’.”

Martin rolled his eyes, pressing his lips together tightly; Deborah knew that a remark about how her home wasn’t his home was at the tip of his tongue, but she didn’t want to argue with him. More recently, the aborted discussions about moving forward tended to end in irritation more often than silent acceptance, and she didn’t want to fight; so Deborah unwound her hands from his arms before Martin could say a word, smiled stiffly, and turned back to where Carolyn was finishing up with Gerry.

She didn’t move away, and let her arm press against Martin’s, their elbows knocking together, a silent demonstration of affection to reassure him that everything was fine; a moment later, one that felt too long, Martin’s hand slipped into hers, and Deborah knew that the sentiment was reciprocated.

“An hour’s time, please.” Carolyn told Gerry, who was drooping only a fraction more than Arthur was, though Arthur was still alight with a glimmer of hope scrawled over his face; she turned to her pilots and nodded to each in turn, clicking her fingers at them, “Deborah, Arthur: wait here; Martin: you’re coming with me.”

“Huh?” Martin responded, grunting as if waking from a deep sleep; his eyebrows leapt up to his hairline, and he made no attempt to move, despite Carolyn striding past him and motioning for him to follow, “Why?”

“I need you to help carry something.” Carolyn replied matter-of-factly, offering no other explanation other than to turn back to him and make another ‘come here’ gesture with her hand; there was no arguing with her, but that didn’t stop Martin from trying.

“I don’t want to carry …” Martin whined, throwing his hands (one still connected to Deborah’s) into the air either side of him and scowling pitifully; he didn’t get to finish, as Carolyn cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“Martin. Only Father Christmas cares about what you want.” Carolyn scolded him; Martin huffed and rolled his eyes in frustration, but Carolyn continued, smirking in her ‘I’m in charge, and you are not’ manner, “I am telling you what you are going to do.”

“Uh, fine…” Martin groaned; Carolyn smiled fleetingly and turned on her heel, heading towards the exit, while Martin took a step forwards, realised that his hand was still hooked around Deborah’s, and then addressed her, the epitome of resignation, “I’ll see you later.”

Martin leaned down to press a kiss to Deborah’s cheek, a sign that all was forgiven between them, before pulling away, making as if to follow Carolyn across the airport; Deborah caught him by the wrist and pressed her lips against his, a small peck accompanied by a warm smile, however forced.

“Bye, Darling.” She murmured, patting him lightly on the cheek, and then turning her hand over to stroke the back of her knuckles over the fresh blush, “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Martin snorted and made a sardonic face, but as he walked away, his lips were carrying a genuine smile; at the very least, that was an achievement. Now all Deborah had to do was find a quiet spot and leave Arthur and Gerry to entertain themselves.

oOoOoOo

As it turned out, Deborah’s plans of a peaceful wait were foiled before they even began; she came to realise, as she was being dragged by the hand like a toddler being dragged after their parent in a National Trust property, that her day now consisted of her protesting, and then of Arthur making her do everything that he wanted her to do.

She had sat and waited while he had his passport stamped with all of the stamps that Gerry owned, while the older man wore a gleeful smile, as if it were the first time he had been allowed to do his job, and now she stood to the side, arms folded over her chest, watching as Arthur moved his keys between his various pockets and traipsed back and forth through the metal detecting gate.

The gate gave a high pitched squeal, and Gerry and Arthur let out a cheer, as Arthur hurried back to stand by the monitor, an excited grin plastered across his face.

“Ah! Ah, she’s got it!” Gerry announced, pointing to the monitor; for someone who worked at the airport every day, Deborah thought that he was far too joyful for it to be normal, or healthy. Then again, the place was still silent, so perhaps he had gone mad with loneliness.

“Yes! Yes!” Arthur cheered; he looked to Deborah, but didn’t seem to pick up on her raised eyebrow, or the aura of exhaustion that she was exuding, “It was in my sock! I never thought it would look there! Let’s go again!”

“Actually, Arthur, I think I might cool off with a quiet read of my paper.” Deborah interjected, raising a hand in apology and slipping her foot back in preparation for steps away from all of the excitement; if she left them to their own devices, perhaps she could sit in blessed quiet for a while, “The excitement’s getting to me.”

“Ohh!” Arthur groaned in disappointment; before she could stop him, he had bounded up behind her and placed his hands companionably on her shoulders, as if he could buoy her into enjoying herself simply by creating a physical barrier to impede her retreat.

“You sure there’s nothing else I can show you?” Gerry inquired, leaving the gate’s monitor to join them, pressing his hands together, face lighting up as idea after idea popped into his head, “Er, the kiosk. Ooh, the baggage carousel!”

“Ooh!” Arthur repeated, squeezing Deborah’s shoulders enthusiastically; he peered around her to grin encouragingly down at her, the same expression that he had worn when dragging her to the gate written across his features.

“No, Arthur.” Deborah insisted, slipping from Arthur’s grasp and holding her hands into the air, palms outstretched; tired she may have been, but she couldn’t quite muster any sense of true irritation at him, or his anticipatory happiness.

“What about the tannoy?” Gerry suggested, and Deborah could see a wily deviousness under his needy demeanour; he must have had a lot of time to plot the best ways to trap potential friends in his airport, to shower them with games and fun; Arthur exhaled excitedly, and Gerry’s face split into a grin, “Would you not like a quick go on the tannoy?”

“Oh, Deborah! Please?” Arthur didn’t quite beg, but more corralled; he pursed his lips and blinked encouragingly at Deborah, in a way that she was sure he had been perfecting over the years that they had known each other.

Deborah sighed, and lowered her arms, closing her eyes momentarily.

“Fine…” she agreed, through gritted teeth; the sooner she obeyed, the sooner Arthur would tire himself out, and she could go and relax and wait for the others to get back.

“Brilliant!” Arthur exclaimed, and without another word he took hold of her hand again, and began leading her in Gerry’s wake, taking long strides across the airports that forced her to speed up or risk tripping and falling on her face.

“You know, if Martin were here, he’d say it was unprofessional of us to play with the airport.” Deborah remarked, pouting, as they passed the row of vacant kiosks, all lit up and ready to play with, “These things are supposed to be out of bounds.”

“But Skip’s not here.” Arthur replied sagely, sending her a glance over his shoulder that roughly translated to ‘since when do you care? Let’s play now’.

oOoOoOo

By the time Deborah was checking her watch, wondering why Martin wasn’t back yet, she had allowed Arthur to drag to the tannoy, and now to the bar; throughout the whole ordeal, she let him take the reins and simply performed like a prize puppy whenever he wanted her to join in.

His announcement had been amusing, that much Deborah was willing to admit, but once he had spoken, and she had remained silent, a curled hand poised over her lips, she was ready to find a corner and curl up in it, perhaps phone Martin and find out where he was.

Now they sat in what constituted as a bar, drinking pineapple juice; Deborah was content to just sit quietly, as she normally would with Arthur, one of them chipping in whenever something interesting crossed their mind, but apparently, Arthur was in the mood for playing up the bar scene.

Not that it was working; the conversation crested and waned like waves on a particularly sparse and uninhabited beach.

“Are you worrying about Skip?” Arthur asked; Deborah looked up from her phone, and glanced at where Arthur sat on the barstool beside hers, to see that he was peering curiously at the device in her hands.

“Why would I be worried about Martin?” Deborah shot back, sitting up to correct the hunch that she had adopted over her phone, and pushing her hair from her face with the back of her free hand; she _had_ been checking to see if she had been left any details as to why they were late back, but she wasn’t about to admit to that, lest she ruin her already crumbling reputation with a dash of clinginess.

“Well, you’ve been checking your phone a lot,” Arthur explained, nodding towards the device that she still held in her hands, and taking another swig of pineapple juice, “And even though Skip’s great, after it’s been this long, you do tend to think that maybe things have gone a bit wrong.”

“He’s a fully grown-” Deborah began to retort, and then stopped, mouth still open; there was no point denying it, Martin, as much as she loved him, was an accident waiting to happen, “Yes, I see your point.”

Just then her phone rang, and Deborah nearly dropped it in her haste to answer; she took a deep breath before pressing the plastic to her ear, calming herself and making sure that Martin couldn’t hear that she was thinking about him.

“Hello?” Deborah greeted the crackle on the other end of the line; it didn’t sound as if they were in a cab, but then again, she could have been wrong.

 _“Deborah! It’s me.”_ Martin answered, his voice strained; it sounded as if he were out of breath, but that didn’t make any sense at all.

“Hello, Martin.” Deborah drawled, feigning surprise; she tried to picture him rolling her eyes at her as she asked, more seriously, “Are you back?”

 _“Er, no.”_ Martin replied; he didn’t sound scared or hurt, but Deborah still felt a shiver of trepidation, and glanced pointedly at Arthur, letting him know that something was happening, “ _We got thrown out of a taxi and now I’m up a tree_.”

“Gosh.” Deborah muttered, having to admit to herself that that _was_ impressive; Carolyn was still with him though, so there was no need to worry, as it sounded as if the worst had happened, and nothing else could possibly go wrong for them, “Quite a powerful throw.”

“ _Can you send out another taxi?”_ Martin sighed; Deborah would have loved to have helped, she really would have, but there was nothing she could do but smile encouragingly at Arthur, who was staring expectantly.

“Certainly.” Deborah told him, doing her best to battle down the temptation to be sarcastic, though her success was limited now that she knew she had little to truly worry about, “What’s the address?”

“ _The address?”_ Martin repeated, and Deborah didn’t refrain from dropping her head into her hand and shaking it, inhaling sharply; the things that she had to put up with, she deserved a medal or twelve.

“Yes.” Deborah replied patiently; she lifted her head and tried to ignore Arthur’s confused stares as he tried to work out what was going on from half a conversation, “Where d’you want the cab sent?”

 _“To-to us_.” Martin stuttered; damn, he was stuttering, that meant that he was stressed and worried even if there was no reason to, _“To where we are. It’s-it’s a road, i-in the rain, uh, with a tree.”_

“Hmm. Are you hearing the problem?” Deborah said thoughtfully; for the sake of not being hunched over when Gerry returned to the bar, she rested her hand on her knee and tried to regain some poise.

 _“Come on_!” Martin groaned, and Deborah’s chest flooded with sympathy, the fluffy sort that had made it impossible for her to enjoy his floundering in quite the same way that she had when they had first met.

“All right, Darling, calm down.” Deborah placated him, turning on the barstool just enough that her back was to Arthur; if she was going to be soppy, then she would do it with a modicum of privacy, “Well, what can you see from there? Maybe we can work out where you are.”

“ _Right. Er, well, there’s fields … and more trees, and, um, ooh, this way there’s a_ …” Martin reeled off everything that he could see, and even though Deborah was gifted with a pang of fondness for the man that she had chosen to share her life with, she couldn’t help despairing; his tone became more reedy, and hushed, almost bewildered, “ _there’s a bee_.”

“I think we may need slightly more reliable landmarks than individual insects.” Deborah sighed; there was no doubt that there was nothing she could do.

 _“S-several bees.”_ Martin repeated; then to Deborah’s surprise, his voice grew thinner, as if sounding from a greater distance, and rose to a high-pitched crescendo, a sound that if he hadn’t been so frantic, she might have wanted to store for later listening, “ _Ooh. Ooh. Ooh! Ooh! Bees! Carolyn! Lots of lots of lots of bees!”_

Then the crackling in her ear was replaced by the dial tone, and Deborah lowered the phone; she span back around to face Arthur, holding the phone at an angle and glaring at it, pouting her lips, as if it had done her a personal offence.

“Oh, he’s rung off.”

oOoOoOo

As loathe as she was to admit it, Deborah was actually having fun with Arthur, and Gerry, to an extent; sure, the drinks were terrible, and Arthur couldn’t master bar talk to save his life, but there were some interesting gems that made the wait worthwhile, and stopped her from worrying too much about what Martin was getting himself into. There was no point worrying about Carolyn; she could survive a nuclear war.

“Deborah, we should be saying things like, you know, ‘Hey, you guy. The dames, eh?’ ‘Yeah, the dames. Stupid dames. You had any luck with the horses?’ ‘No, the horses are all … idiots. You know, between the dames and the horses, sometimes I don’t even know why I put my hat on.’” Arthur had declared at one point, placing his curled hands on his waist and puffing out his chest, and slapping on a debonair smile that wavered as the concluded, “That’s how they talk in bars, isn’t it?”

Deborah had fought back a smile, bemused, choosing not to take too much offense at the fact that apparently her gender had slipped his mind.

“ … No, Arthur.” She replied stiltedly, folding her arms over her chest for a lack of anything else to do, and focusing on keeping a straight face lest she accidently make the wobbling expression on his face tip the wrong way, “That’s not how anyone talks, anywhere.”

There had even been a few moments of emotional bonding, though if asked later, Deborah would deny it vehemently, once Arthur had been threatened nicely not to reveal a word that she said.

“If it helps, you are excellent at being teased.” Deborah reassured Arthur, reaching across the gap between them to pat his arm, smiling encouragingly; she had been feeling bad for him. It had never occurred to her that Arthur might want to fit in with the other blokes; she much preferred him _not_ fitting in, but she supposed that as long as he was happy, then that was all that mattered.

“Oh, really?” Arthur replied brightly, his face lighting up immediately; that was the ticket, “Am I?”

“Oh, first rate!” Deborah exclaimed, nodding certainly; then she exhaled slowly, and ran her fingers over the phone still in her hands, letting her eyes fall of the blank screen, as she sighed affectionately, “Second only to Martin. He’s the master.”

“Aww, thanks, Deborah!” Arthur batted his hand through the air, blinking gratefully across at her; he pursed his lips and continued sheepishly, “And-and maybe if I practise, I could get as good as him.”

“As good as Martin?” Deborah asked, quirking an eyebrow in thought; frowning playfully, she shook her head as she met Arthur’s gaze, “I’m afraid not. He always goes the extra mile.” as she spoke again, Deborah couldn’t help ducking her eyes back to her phone, as her shoulders tucked in ever so slightly, and she could almost feel the light flush in her cheeks, “The man just phoned me from up a tree… _god_ , I love him so much…”

“Even up a tree?” Arthur replied curiously; Deborah glanced sideways without lifting her head, only to find that Arthur had tilted his, trying to catch a peek of her face through the loose strands of her hair that fell forwards.

“Especially up a tree.” Deborah drawled wanly, too overwhelmed with the spontaneous rush of affection that fluttered in her chest and her cheeks at the thought of Martin floundering up a tree, “I just…I don’t know why, I just love him…fumbles and all…I know he’s an idiot- my idiot though…especially when he’s an idiot.”

It was difficult to really care that she sounded airy and ridiculous, when Deborah could only really focus on the fact that Arthur didn’t fill the quiet she left behind; one look showed that he just looked confused, and for some reason, she couldn’t leave Arthur confused, lest something awful come of it…like he asked other people, for example.

“It’s….it’s that…it’s easier to…not be perfect, when Martin’s so _not_ ,” Deborah explained, turning to face Arthur more definitively, gripping her phone in both hands, “He doesn’t…he doesn’t want perfect, because he’s not, even though he could be better than he seems to think he is…” she trailed off, and swallowed hard, regaining her composure, “It’s nice, is all.”

Thankfully, Arthur nodded, and smiled, and moved the conversation onto safer waters, calling Gerry back to serve them more pineapple juice.

oOoOoOo

Deborah was furious at Carolyn for putting Martin through the day from Hell, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. Luckily for Carolyn, Deborah was far more worried about the tears in Martin’s uniform, the bruises on his jutting limbs, and the appalling state of his hands. On the bright side, he did seem a little happier now that he had his ring back (granted, inside a goose, but that problem could be solved later), and was fast asleep on the hotel bed next to her.

When they had finally been booked into a room, Deborah had shoved him in the direction of the bathroom to get showered and remove the stink from his essence, and when he had returned, squeaky clean and pouting petulantly, she had looked to his hands, making sure that they were soaked in antiseptic and not in need of any medical attention, before letting him fall into a heavy doze.

All the while, her head played host to something that Carolyn had said, just before she dismissed them; she had taken Deborah by the elbow and drawn her to the side, lowering her voice so that Martin couldn’t overhear in the big empty airport.

“Just so you know Deborah, on the way back here, Martin did quite a lot of complaining about his financial state-” Carolyn began to explained, but she was cut off as Deborah withdrew her arm from the other woman’s grasp.

“I’m not surprised.” Deborah drawled tautly, far beyond the mood for dealing with her employer by that point, “You don’t pay him.”

“I know that, but I’m telling you because it has a direct impact on your relationship, and therefore on the company.” Carolyn retorted through gritted teeth; the tense set of her jaw and shoulders was enough to convince Deborah to nod and listen, “He did all the usual moaning, but then grumbled about how having no money meant he could do dates, or be a proper partner, and ‘ _oh, how can I deserve to be in a relationship if I can’t even support my girlfriend’_ … I thought you might be a little concerned about that.”

“Believe me Carolyn, I am, and I’ve heard it all before.” Deborah replied, swallowing away a clot of distasteful dejection that settled in her throat; not quite in such raw detail though, “I’m well aware that his bloody pride is holding back our relationship, even though I’ve told him I don’t want-”

“He actually _told_ me that it’s not about what _you_ want.” Carolyn interjected; she had the decency to look sorry for her, “It’s all about _him_ wanting to _feel_ good enough…it’s ‘ _I’m the Captain’_ all over again without a single thought about anything outside of his little bubble.”

Deborah took a deep breath, and turned her back on where Martin and Arthur were bumbling about on the other side of the airport; she pressed the heel of her hand over her eyes, and relished the moment of peace.

“I know, Carolyn.” She sighed; Deborah was well aware, and having someone else acknowledge it only compounded her problems, “Thank you. Now, I’m going to go and make sure you haven’t crippled him for life.”

“Yes, well, I only tell you for the sake of keeping the peace.” Carolyn replied, taking a moment to primly tuck readjust her jacket, and regain an air of coolness, “When I warned you about starting something, I honestly thought that _you’d_ be the problem, not him. Well done for proving me wrong.”

Now it was morning, and Martin was sound asleep, on his side and curled into Deborah where she sat, propped up against the headboard; the night before, he had whacked the air conditioning up to full, so she had slipped on the fleece that Martin used to wear for van jobs, but that she had claimed as her own months ago.

On her lap, Deborah held his uniform jacket and a sowing kit that she had snaffled from his flight bag shortly after he had dozed off; she narrowed her eyes, and bit down on her bottom lip as she carefully and precisely stitched up each large and miniscule whole that the jacket had acquired in the last day, taking care to make sure that the dark thread couldn’t be seen from the outside.

It was probably too early to be up, but Deborah had barely been able to sleep; instead, she comforted herself with the idea that Martin would love such a gesture, as much as he loved what the jacket symbolised. Also…she simply wanted to. It didn’t even cross her mind that she should leave it be; Martin was sad, so she was fixing it as best she could, because she loved him, and it would make his heart sing when he awoke.

Perhaps it would even help to convince him that she loved him regardless of all his worries.

A faint grumbling at her side, and Deborah glanced past her elbow to see Martin rolling slightly, his head turning blearily as he trudged into alertness; she smiled and chuckled softly, drawing him to the sound of her voice, until he lay on his back, blinking up at her. He smiled in response to her brief glance, but as he propped himself up on his elbows, Martin’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“W-what are you doing?” Martin yawned, running his eyes over the project in her lap; he reached out to touch the jacket with the tips of his fingers, but Deborah batted them away, earning a pitiable frown.

“I’m sowing, so keep your hands out of the way, unless you want some interesting patterns in your captain’s jacket.” Deborah explained, lifting the bulk of the material just enough that Martin could verify her statement, see the stripes at the end of the arm, “I should be done before we have to go anywhere, don’t worry.”

“Oh, Deborah, you don’t have to do that.” Martin breathed, his voice seeped in gratitude as he placed a gentle hand on her elbow; his eyes were wide, and Deborah couldn’t see anything other than complete devotion in the pink flush of his cheeks. Things weren’t nearly as tense as they seemed, she thought, of course they weren’t; it was all just needless worry.

“You know I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.” Deborah replied, letting a small smirk tug up the corner of her lips as she glanced away from her threading and met his gaze; play it cool, don’t let him know that she’s concerned, “And besides, when people see you in this, they’re going to say ‘Wow, look at those stitches, they look like they’ve been stitched by the gods’.”

“ _Deborah_ …” Martin’s tone was that breathy, warning tone that had lasted from their first months together, and that she wasn’t quite ready to let go of; his eyes were boring into her face, and the moment that she turned, Deborah knew that he didn’t believe her.

“Fine, alright.” Deborah sighed; she dropped her arms, resting them on her knees, and pursing her lips as she addressed Martin, forcing herself to be truthful, and not sound petulant about it, “Being respected as Captain is important to you…therefore it’s important to _me_ that you go out there looking your best, and not in a scraggy uniform; it’s just a nice gesture, from me to you, that’s all.”

Deborah didn’t wait for a reply as she lifted the needle and thread again, and focused all of her attention on stitching the edge of a jagged tear in the back of his jacket; she was only trying to fix things, like everyone always expected her to, she didn’t deserve the third degree.

By her side, she felt Martin hoisting himself into a sitting position; Deborah was jostled as his arm went around her shoulders, and she almost dropped the needle as her elbow connected clumsily with his stomach.

“Thank you.” Martin murmured into her hair, pressing his cheek against the top of her head; Deborah didn’t reply, but she shifted so that she could sow with him wrapped around her, adjusting to his presence.

It was nice; they might as well have enjoyed the pleasant peace of the morning while they could. Deborah had no doubt that in a few hours, everyone would be tearing their hair out over the bloody bird that Martin insisted needed to go on the plane with them.


	38. Interlude 16

**Interlude 16**

They weren’t expecting to fly today, but it was the first day of stand-by after a small break, so Carolyn wanted all of them in work and not lounging at home on the presumption that the client wouldn’t turn up for another week. That made Deborah’s life a little more difficult than it already was, but she supposed that needs must.

Deborah was tired of shuffling around matters and holding back, shutting up when Martin didn’t want to talk about the more serious matters in their lives; that wasn’t Richardson style, and she was finally going to take back her trademark confidence, putting forward what she wanted, laying matters out between them, and getting to the root of their problems. It might have been easier to do so at home, but work would have to do, as she couldn’t allow herself to have second thoughts.

But for now, she needed to get Martin in as good a mood as possible, to make his agreeing with her desires more likely. He was always grumpy when he woke up, until he had at least one coffee in his system, but the past few days had been exceptional in terms of bringing him down and making him impossible to reason with; to say that both of their nerves were frayed was an understatement.

Their last client had been a pain, and had refused to believe that Martin was the Captain, despite his vehement protests; then not one, but two van jobs had fallen through, leaving him bereft of pay, and slumped on her sofa, scowling at the corner of the coffee table and sniffling as he put on a brave face and cuddled up with her. There was something to be said for the fact that he came to Deborah, rather than moping on his own, and she hoped that that was an encouraging sign.

When she saw Martin emerging, in full pressed uniform, from the hall, Deborah wandered back into the kitchen, flicking the kettle and pulling towards her the cup of coffee mixture that she had already prepared for him; step one was in motion, she thought, as she heard his footfalls pad across the carpet towards her. Her scheme was subtle, but hopefully the results would bring all sorts of gains.

“You’re dressed?” Martin remarked in surprise as he sidled up beside her, leaning one arm against the counter and running his eyes over her uniform; even though it pained her, Deborah was going to let him get her to work on time today, just to lift his spirits even more, “How long have you been up?”

“Only a bit longer than you have; I checked your alarm for you before I came through.” Deborah replied; as the kettle clicked, she poured his drink and swiftly placed the warm mug into his hands, before reaching across to the stove to retrieve the plate that she had covered with a tea-towel, releasing the enticing scent of bacon and eggs, “And here is your breakfast, freshly made, just for you.”

Martin’s eyes widened in affected shock as the plate was placed in his other hand, and Deborah beamed, leaning back against the counter to watch as he placed his mug down, trailing his gaze up to meet hers, apparently so overcome with emotion that his bottom lip was wobbling slightly before he pulled it through his teeth. It really _had_ been a tough few days for him.

“Thank you.” Was all that Martin was able to sigh, before reaching around with one arm to pull Deborah into a brief hug; Deborah chuckled pleasantly, and placed a kiss on his cheek, before retracting herself and nudging him towards the table, wafting him with quick hand motions.

“Oh, sit down, Martin.” Deborah scolded fondly, standing with her arms folded over her chest until he was sitting, plate in front of him, with no chance of escaping or dropping anything, “I don’t need thanking for treating my handsome man to a cooked breakfast.”

“Hmm, why do I feel like you’re buttering me up for something?” Martin retorted, a smile playing about his lips as he dug into the food lying before him; he may have suspected something, but Deborah was sure that his guess wasn’t correct.

Simply shrugging nonchalantly, and winking to fuel his interest, Deborah left him in the kitchen area, and strode back to her room; Martin’s flight bag was as usual, perched on the end of the bed, where he would place it in the mornings before he left. The only possessions that Martin had left at her flat were a toothbrush, and his old jumper, which got worn around the house  when he wasn’t there; everything else got carried around in his flight-bag, regardless of whether they were leaving the country or not.

Deborah hoisted the bag into her arms, letting it hang open, revealing the mixture of carefully folded and hastily stowed items and allowing them to poke into the open air; then she wandered back into the sitting room, dropped it onto the coffee table, falling into the sofa and glancing across to where Martin was still sitting in the kitchen.

“You know Martin, instead of carting these round with you all day, you _could_ leave them here, and I could throw them in the wash for you.” Deborah suggested, taking a t-shirt from within the folds of the bag; he had only worn it the day before, but it still smelt like him, and didn’t need to take a trip to the airfield.

“No, don’t worry about it.” Martin replied, peering up from his food, forking hanging in the air over his plate; he was deflecting again, it was painfully obvious in the set of his jaw and the dip of his eyebrows, “I can wash them at home; I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition, Martin, I’m offering.” Deborah said dryly, nonetheless doing as Martin wished, and folding his clothes so that they once more fit comfortably in his bag; she wouldn’t push until she absolutely ready to say what she had to say, “You know, my house is your house… _and all_.”

“It’s a nice thought, but no, thank you.” Martin stated firmly; a clink emanated from the kitchen, followed by the scraping of a chair as he rose to his feet and moved to the sink, and began running the water to wash up after himself, as always, eager not to impose or become a hindrance.

“Alright.” Deborah responded, refusing to let herself be taken down by the wash of dejection in her guts; just a little longer, the right moment, preferably a moment alone, and she would make her move, “Whatever you want, Darling.”

oOoOoOo

It was late afternoon, or thereabouts, and Martin and Deborah were the only ones in the porta-cabin; Herc had arrived a few hours beforehand, and he and Carolyn had gone to a coffee shop in Fitton, while Arthur had disappeared to talk to the grounds crew, or do whatever it was that he did in his free time. A whole day to stew, and Deborah was ready to burst.

The day hadn’t gone badly, but Martin was still irritable at best, sighing here and there, frowning at his paperwork rather than humming jauntily to himself, scrawling looping letters across the pages. He could have been happier, it would have been easier if he was, but there was no changing things now.

But Deborah had made up her mind, and steeled herself, and she wasn’t going to back down now, not again; this needed talking about, once and for all, and damn the consequences. Nothing too horrible could happen; she predicted an argument, but one that she would win, as always.

She was sitting on the sofa, one leg folded neatly over the other, watching him as he paced back and forth on the outer side of their desks, stacking his paperwork into tidy piles, ready for tomorrow; it was now or never, Deborah couldn’t wait any longer.

“Martin, Darling, we need to talk.” Deborah announced, clearing her throat to remove the lump of nerves that struck up in her throat; Martin turned abruptly, his mouth falling open with the upward leap of his eyebrows as he stared at her in tentative surprise, his lips wobbling as if words were on the tip of his tongue, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad, but it _is_ important; to me at least.”

“What?” Martin asked hastily, eyes flittering over her as if searching for injury; he dropped the papers onto the desk and turned to face her fully, giving Deborah all of his attention, which was enough to boost her confidence to where it should have been, “What is it?”

“Come and sit down first.” Deborah instructed, patting the sofa beside her; this would be easier if she could talk to him whilst level, and able to take his hands and squeeze encouragingly if needs be. There was something just a little too worrying about trying to discuss this matter with him at an advantage, exit wise.

“Okay…” Martin agreed, narrowing his eyes at her in cautious suspicion; he tread across the porta-cabin, coming to sit on the opposite end of the sofa, making it dip in the middle, causing Deborah to have to take her eyes from him as she shifted to compensate, “What’s wrong?”

This was it; Deborah took a deep breath, and turned until her knees only just didn’t connect with Martin’s, taking care to meet his eyes and dispel any temptation to drawl or put on a false expression, be it smirk or nonchalant smile.

“I want to move forwards in our relationship.” Deborah explained plainly, steadily, dutifully ignoring the way that Martin’s shoulders stiffened, and he glanced away from her, the corner of his mouth pinching; instead, she placed her hands together over her lap and continued, as if she had seen nothing, though a prickle of something twinged in her chest, “I love you very much, and I want to move past ‘dating’. You may have not have noticed in the haze of the last few months, but I want you to move in with me.”

There it was, a pleasant, rational, well spoken statement of her desire, put forward for Martin to listen to and agree to; no room for prevaricating, or pretending that she hadn’t asked, Deborah had made it clear what she wanted, and there was no way that Martin could argue with that, not if he had been telling the truth all those months.

Which was why when she watched Martin roll his eyes, huff and tut, and shove his arms around his chest, slumping frustrated back into the sofa, Deborah felt something inside of her snap, and all of the emotions that she had been repressing for the sake of keeping Martin happy flooded into one single point of irritation, a slingshot back into her sharp tongued self.

“Deborah, you know how I feel about this-” Martin groaned, refusing to make eye contact, instead staring across the porta-cabin, pressing his lips into a tight line; but Deborah didn’t allow him to finish, her own back stiffening as she shook her head.

“No, I don’t know how you feel about it, because all I’ve heard is a load of nonsense about money, and jobs, and being able to afford things that don’t even matter!” she snapped, choking on a rush of victory when Martin finally met her glare, finally acknowledged that there was actually an issue between them; she didn’t want to upset him, but Deborah couldn’t stop herself from tearing into him, as she had been refraining from doing ever since she had first realised how she felt about him, “This has nothing to do with money, or your bloody pride Martin. This is me, wanting us to live together, because that’s what people do when they cobble their lives together.”

“My bloody pride?” Martin repeated, slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she had said it at all, as if Deborah were the one at fault; he leaned back where he sat, eyebrows at his hairline as he stared back at her, open mouthed, as if daring her to carry on. Of course, Deborah couldn’t stop; she’d made things so clear for him, and the bloody man was still trying to claim the high road, without a thought towards how _she_ felt.

“Yes.” Deborah replied shortly, pursing her lips to stop them from trembling under Martin’s indignant glare; she wrapped her arms around her chest, and nearly protested when Martin suddenly surged to his feet, striding purposefully back to his desk, but she held her tongue.

“No, Deborah,” Martin said agitatedly, turning his back on her and rifling through his papers aimlessly; his hands were shaking, but that didn’t’ stop the shards of upset from prickling the walls of Deborah’s chest as she was ignored, _again_ , and pushed metaphorically to the side, “the answer is no, because we’ve talked about this.”

“No we haven’t!” Deborah insisted petulantly, barely raising her voice; she refused to stand, hoped that stayed down, arms crossed on the sofa, glaring at Martin as he turned back to face her, not quite leaning on the desks, might make this less of a fight, “At no point in the 9 months we’ve been together have we sat down and talked about where we want our relationship to go, other than that we do want it.” She swallowed hard, blinking hard to avoid breaking the contact between them; Martin’s face was stiff, his cheeks inflamed, his hands clenching at his sides, but he didn’t reply, merely shook his head, “Martin, wanting to be in love long term is not the same as discussing the future. I've tried, but every time I do you knock me back.”

“Why do we need to discuss it?” Martin exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air, his lips flickering briefly into a sour facsimile of a smile, before falling again; it made it so easy for Deborah to understand how he was able to become so frustrated so quickly, as her stomach gave another lurch, making way for vitriol, “Or live together as some sort of validation?” he ran a shuddering hand over the bottom of his face, and huffed, glaring across the gulf at her, “You know I love you, I say it all the time.”

“Because sometimes I don’t believe you!” Deborah almost yelled, almost rising from the sofa with the effort; the moment the words left her mouth it was like an empty space opened up in the pit of her chest, and her eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut as she froze in place.

Martin’s reaction mirrored hers, almost to the imperceptible motion of his lips pressing together, and his eyes widening beneath painfully knitted eyebrows, the bridge of his nose scrunching in shock; she had never thought that before, she had no idea where that had come from. Yet now, now that the words had been spoken, Deborah’s mind played host to a wave of memories, thrusting themselves into her consciousness and stringing threads of doubt throughout every happy moment that they had had together, each one soured by the stark refusal on Martin’s part.

And that, that little niggling bite at the back of her throat stopped her from taking it back, silencing the voice that was screaming in the back of her head to stop, stop right now and apologise.

“You what?” Martin asked, sounding as if she had slapped him, gaping at her as if daring her to confirm what she had just said; his hands moved to grip the desk behind him, as if grounding him, as he narrowed his eyes as her, “You don’t believe that I love you?”

“Not when half the time it feels like your damned pride, your _bloody_ insistence that you’re the _proper man_ ticking all the boyfriend boxes, seems more important than actually being with me.” Deborah replied tensely, her nails digging into the curve of her elbows, pinning her together and preventing her from just stopping; she couldn’t, not when she had put her heart out in the open for him, and Martin had just thrown it back in her face, he just didn’t listen, “Just saying you love me isn’t good enough, Martin, when you clearly don’t want to even share a flat with me.”

“Hold on, h-hold on!” Martin ordered, throwing his hand up, palm open, curling into an accusing finger as he continued to shake his head at her in indignant disbelief; Deborah inhaled sharply, drawing herself together where she sat frozen, as he carried on, voice shaking, “If you don't believe me then w-what's the point in us even being together?” Another painful pang in her chest, that made it feel as if she were drowning, “What’s the point in _any_ of this if you think I’ve been lying this whole time?”

“I don’t know.” Deborah retorted, hating herself for saying it; but she was good at this, she was good at fighting back, she could win this, she couldn’t let him pay too much attention to the way that her lips were trembling, or admit that she was wrong, because she wasn’t, not at all, “The way you’ve been treating _us,_ it’s as if we’re just in it for a bit of fun on the side, something to do. What's the point in us being together if you won't commit to more than a night in?”

There was a moment of silence, in which Deborah felt like her arms around her chest were keeping her from bursting into a sickly torrent of water, held in by small, flickering shards of anger, so much easier to feel than the abject horror that tried to pulse through her veins. It was strange looking up at Martin from across the room, watching his cheeks pale, and the quivering set of his lips droop into something more stunned and miserable, as his hands clenched around the desk, and his eyes trailed from the carpet, then up to meet hers.

“I-I don't know,” Martin replied, echoing Deborah’s own words back at her; staring back at his watery blur eyes, she had never hated herself more, nor wanted to tear at him and yet cling to the remains with such an aching vehemence, “m-maybe there is no point.”

Just like that Deborah felt like the rest of the world disappeared, and was replaced by a sharper world, in such high definition that the sounds were like nails on chalkboards, and every inch of her skin felt as if it were pressed against blocks of ice, while her guts lurched, and then collapsed into a bottomless pit.

Martin couldn’t mean that; he _couldn’t_ , because if he did, than her accusation had been true, and she might just fall victim to the itching temptation to claw the flesh from her bones to force away the heat behind her eyes. But he was still staring at her, stiff, still, waiting for her reaction; waiting to see how much he had just hurt her, just like their first few months, when they’d push and prod at each other to try and get a rise.

“What an astute observation Captain.” Deborah drawled stiltedly, her chest constricting with each syllable; anger was better than misery, it was better than choking on the anxious screeching that leaked from her brain. If only Martin’s expression didn’t fall the way that it did, as the tension left his limbs, leaving only a defeated pallor.

“Fine, f-fine,” Martin stuttered, his voice heavy with what might have been repressed tears, as he shook his head slowly and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth; he waved his hand through the air in a definitive gesture, and Deborah shifted as if to stand, though she didn’t, held still as if a wall had appeared between them, “you know what, we said this wouldn't work, we said right at the start that we were going to muck it up, and we have, and it clearly hasn't worked as well as I thought it had. We are on _completely_ different pages.”

“What are you suggesting Martin?” Deborah asked quietly, unable to make her voice rise loud enough, but it didn’t seem to matter, as the airfield had never been so still; she didn’t stand, fearing that her legs might shake from beneath her if she did. This was all wrong; Martin was supposed to shoot back a snappy retort, then she would do the same, and then they would grump and grouch but eventually get in the same car and go home; this wasn’t right, he couldn’t mean it.

“I'm suggesting we end it, right now.” Martin answered, swallowing audibly as he took his hands from the desk behind him and brought them forwards to slip into his pocket, still clenching and unclenching, as he took in a shuddering breath; there was nothing that Deborah could do but open her mouth and gape at him, haughty stillness replaced by ice cold denial, “B-because you don’t understand _at all_ , you don’t u-understand how I feel, and I don’t understand how you _can’t see_ , and you know what? I can’t be dealing with that any more. I-I’ve been trying _so_ hard, _so_ hard to be good enough, and you _still_ don’t get it.”

 _Her?_ That jerked Deborah back to life, filling her with a flare of indignation; even standing there, Martin had the audacity to imply that _she_ was the problem? No; there was no way that she was going to take that lying down, not from Martin of all people.

“If you want to end it then go ahead.” Deborah remarked sourly, forcing a flicker of a twisted smirk, inhaling sharply once, then twice as she sucked in the shudders rippling through her chest, and unravelled her arms from her chest to grip the edge of the sofa; she shouldn’t dare him, she knew that, but she couldn’t stop herself, “I obviously haven’t got any sort of hold over you.”

“Fine, F-f-f-fine.” Martin hissed, as if the words burnt his tongue; it felt as if the ground had collapsed around them, and Deborah’s whole being washed clean of thought, rhyme, or reason as he withdrew his hands from his pockets and made a definitive motion through the air, “We're over, we are officially no longer a couple - I'm done.” He pushed away from the desk and began striding towards the door, rubbing his hands over his face, “I can’t – I can’t fight with you over this anymore. You just _had_ to keep pushing.”

“Martin?” Deborah’s voice was barely a whisper, but it rang through the air between them like a siren; this couldn’t be happening, he wasn’t doing this, and she _still_ couldn’t make herself stand, rooted to the sofa, through hanging from the edge.

“No, Deborah, I can’t do this anymore!” Martin snapped, whirling on his heel to stand in the centre of the room, his eyes scorching alongside his cheeks, even as they watered slightly, his jaw shivering where it jutted in anger, “You don’t listen to a single thing I’ve said, y-y-you don’t _get it!”_

“Oh, I get it Martin.” Deborah replied, grasping at that last thread of indignation, of hurt; if he stayed, if Martin stayed to fight, then it wasn’t over, he would stay and fight and then they’d fix it, that was how they worked, “I get that you’ve got some damn inferiority complex and you won’t even listen to me when I tell you that I don’t care how-”

“Exactly!” Martin cut her off, squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest out ever so slightly; with that one motion, that single implication of confidence, of certainty, any hope that may have resided in Deborah’s chest evaporated, leaving nothing behind but a void as she stared wide eyed at the man she loved, “You don’t care, and you don’t believe that I love you, so I’m done. We’re done, that’s it, we’re done.”

“Martin…” Deborah breathed desperately, unclenching her hands where they gripped painfully into the edge of the sofa and rising slowly to her feet; she could barely hear herself think over the welling up of hot, horrible, angst in her every pore, threatening to overflow.

“No.” Martin said firmly, taking in another shuddering breath and shaking his head sharply, “We agreed when we started that if we hit any speed bumps, we’d call it off, and this is one _hell_ of a speed bump. I’m done.”

Then he turned on his heel, and was gone before the door to the porta-cabin even had time to jam or slam in his wake, his presence ringing nonetheless in the space left behind.

 _“Martin?”_ Deborah called after him, her voice strained with the effort as she took two stumbling steps forwards, not quite believing that he had gone; but the door slammed shut, and the sound of his boots on the concrete faded fast, and she could hardly form another word as her chest began to heave.

No…no, no, no…no…

“ _Oh, God…”_ Deborah groaned, as she fell backwards into the sofa, folding in on herself, her head dropping into her intertwined arms, as the broiling in her chest intensified, as if it were falling into a pit, and everything that she had been holding in burst from her all at once, felling her in one fell swoop.

She didn’t know when the tears started burning her eyes, or when they turned into sobs, wrenching the air from her lungs without her permission, but Deborah could barely think straight, too torn apart by wave after wave of misery thrusting against every sense.

_Oh god Martin…Martin come back…please…_

She didn’t hear the door opening, but she heard Herc’s voice, out of place; but Deborah couldn’t find the energy to lift her head, the most she could do was to inhale sharply, cease her gasps, even as her eyes continued to weep.

“Have you two had a falling out?” he asked cheerfully, “It’s just I saw Martin-” Hercs voice broke off, and there was a pause in which Deborah opened her eyes long enough to peer through the gaps between her arms, only to see him standing in the doorway, examining her with a strange expression on his face; it was too much to take, so she closed her eyes again, and just withdrew back into her misery, “Oh Deborah…”

The next thing Deborah knew, there was an arm around her; she knew that she wanted to push it away, but she just couldn’t be bothered.

Sometime later Carolyn arrived, and Herc escaped; by that point Deborah had collected herself enough to take in what Carolyn said about how she thought that it would be _her_ , and not Martin that messed things up between them. She didn’t care; all she wanted to do was go home.

oOoOoOo

The middle of the night rolled around, and Deborah lay in her bed, curled on her side, clutching the covers between her fingers. She couldn’t cry anymore, that had ended hours ago; now all that was left to ponder was the aching emptiness in her very being.

She had always thought that quite a cliché, laughed at the idea, but now…Deborah could have sworn on any book that a chunk of her life was missing, replaced by a chill that seeped through her skin despite the warm weather, and made the space between her eyes water and prickle as wave after wave of painful sadness penetrated her mind.

Every now and then Deborah would be hit with a surge of anger – how could he? How could he leave after everything? Martin…that pernicious, puffed up…Martin…then another sense of drowning in how much she would give for him to dictate prissily at her everything that was wrong so that they could move on.

He was all that she could think about. It was over between them; that much had sunk in, finally, after hours and hours of running the fight through her head. But she wanted him back.

After Harry had gone, after Chris had kicked her out, after the first one (damn, she couldn’t even remember his name), after the other men had gone, Deborah had mourned the loss, but she had wanted them away from her, accepting the flaws when they were laid out and prepared to move on, no matter how much it stung.

Not Martin…Deborah would have given anything to have Martin next to her now, to hold him, to just talk to him, put everything right. Just the thought made tears threaten to well up again. They’d ruined it all…

A metallic little ding broke her from her ever more morbid musings. Rolling onto her back so that she could better reach the bedside table on her side of the bed, Deborah retrieved her phone from its customary resting place, and clicked the correct buttons instinctively. When the message appeared on the screen, held above her head, she almost wished that she hadn’t.

_Are you okay? – Martin_

Deborah sucked in a breath, lowering her arms and rolling back onto her side, tucking the phone as close to her chest as possible without hiding it from view; if nothing else, she could thank Martin for snapping her out of her reverie.

Okay? After all the misery that she had endured after he had stormed from the porta-cabin, he asked if she was okay? Perfect. Anger was perfect; that perfect, sublime anger that had kept her afloat when her marriage had been sinking and Martin had merely been an unusually bewitching annoyance.

_We just ended a nine month relationship – DR_

She sent her reply with a surge of vitriol, then thought again; Deborah Richardson didn’t let herself get walked over, and she most certainly wouldn’t leave it there.

_Why do you care?- DR_

Martin’s reply came almost immediately, the content of which was enough to make Deborah pause, and sag into the bed, regretting her hasty strike.

_Because we just ended a nine month relationship – Martin_

It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be as sad as she was. A glimmer of hope, just a slither in the middle of the night, now that they were half a town away from each other. Deborah slowly tapped out another message, biting her lip as she sent it.

_Are you standing by that decision? – DR_

Two minutes passed before his response lit up her phone; Deborah watched them pass on the little digital clock face.

_Yes_

Then another text arrived before Deborah could truly absorb the weight of realisation that slammed into her, like bricks, only heavier, and far more of a surprise.

_Are you going to try and change my mind? – Martin_

It might have been hopeful, it might have been sardonic; Deborah knew that it was the final, desperate call of a man that questioned his every decision, the Captain waiting for the First Officer to correct his orders when he couldn’t admit that he might have got it wrong.

Even though it hurt, there was no question what the clarity that spread across her mind meant; there was no question as to how she was going to respond.

_No._

oOoOoOo

Making herself go to work the next day had been hard, but Deborah had taken a deep breath, cleaned herself up, and got in the car just like any other day; seeing Martin may kill her, but she’d be damned if she didn’t take back the strength that was rightfully hers, and carry on like a queen.

When she arrived at the airfield, Deborah pulled her car up beside Martin’s without even thinking about it; a force of habit that struck her as she closed the door of her Lexus, and began to walk slowly down the gap between it and the van. Just like any other day.

Which was why she was caught off guard when the driver’s door of the van clicked open, and she turned on her heel just in time to see Martin climbing from inside it, shutting the door and turning to lean against it, arms coming together over his chest. Deborah took in the paleness of his cheeks, the red rings under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept, and the downward tilt of his lips, and felt a stirring of something in her stomach; so she wasn’t the only one that had suffered.

“Have you been waiting for me in your van?” Deborah asked wanly, quirking an eyebrow even though just that gesture made her feel exhausted, and drained with each second that she looked at Martin, shyly watching for her reaction to his presence.

“I wanted to talk to you, and not in front of Arthur and Carolyn.” Martin answered sheepishly, bringing his hands together at his front, and glancing down at them as if that might ease things between them, if he didn’t spend too much time staring at her as if she were water in a desert.

Unable to ignore the affection that she still (and always had, always would) feel for him, Deborah took pity on Martin, and took the few steps that were required for her to lean against her car, facing him; the proximity only served to remind her how much she loved him, but she couldn’t let herself give in to that self-pitying expression on his face.

“Go on then.” Deborah instructed him weakly, waving her hand in a facsimile of nonchalance that she knew he wouldn’t buy; the way that his face lit up imperceptibly made her want to wrap her arms around him, but she refrained, and wrapped them around her chest instead.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way that things went; I-I never wanted…” Martin trailed off, his bottom lip slipping beneath his teeth; the thing was, Deborah believed him, she knew that he was sorry, which was the only reason that she nodded for him to continue, “The thing is though – the thing is, that when we started this, when we decided to give it a go…we agreed that no matter what happened, we would always be friends.”

The implication that they had merely been ‘giving it a go’ made her bristle, but Deborah had always been the one person that listened to Martin when he was speaking, and she knew that underneath his awkward delivery, it was the sentiment that came with his dewy eyed gaze that she should pay heed to.

“Yes, we did.” Deborah agreed, nodding as she pursed her lips and forced herself to glance around her, instead of gazing into Martin’s eyes, or worse, staring at every inch of him until she gave in.

“Yeah…and I meant it; even though I’m angry, and upset…” Martin’s mouth clamped shut as he swallowed hard and cleared his throat, rubbing a hand half encased in his sleeve over the lower half of his face; Deborah felt her lips tremble as she watched him, and pulled her arms more tightly over her chest, “Even though we didn’t work, I-I can’t stand the idea that I might lose you as a friend…I still care, and I _need_ you…”

“Martin, no matter what happens, I will always be your friend.” Deborah assured him before he could work himself up; the bloody man was making _her_ feel like crying again, and that was enough to remind her why she should ignore the feelings that his bright eyed relief instilled, and make no secret of the other feelings that he was producing, “Believe me, I am _more_ than upset and angry, I can’t even – but even though it may not seem like it for a while…this hasn’t changed the fact that you’re my best friend.”

“So things can go back to the way they were before?” Martin asked faintly, his fingers picking at his epaulets as he tentatively looked into her eyes; then he blushed, and looked away, correcting himself, “ _Before_ , before.”

Just thinking about it made Deborah’s heart grow heavy, and if she wanted to, she could have drowned in the flood of emotions, her absolute love for the man standing in front of her, making her hurt so badly it made her want to tear one or both of them apart; she prayed that she didn’t look as close to tears as she felt.

“Yes…but give it time.” Deborah replied drearily, making an effort to sound confident, falling far short of the mark; Martin nodded hastily before she had even finished, “We’re both in pain Martin, and I need _time_ – just, don’t expect things to go back to normal straight away. Allow us both a little time to be sad, yes?”

“Yes.” Martin nodded solemnly in acknowledgement, sniffling slightly; he bit at his bottom lip and exhaled shakily, but smiled at her as if she had provided light for his sun starved home.

When no other words came, Deborah looked down and blinked hard, sucking up her feelings and packing them away for work, before turning away from Martin and making her way towards the porta-cabin; at the sound of him falling into step a short way behind her, Deborah realised just how difficult the next chapter of her life was going to be.


	39. Vaduz

**Vaduz**

Two weeks; Deborah would never admit that she was counting the days since she and Martin had ended their relationship, but every morning, like clockwork, the little number in her head would rise, and another day would pass in which she was choked more and more by a vile mixture of absolute love, and complete miserable anger for him.

At first there had just been sadness, as Deborah had expected; the temptation to simply beg for him back clashed with a hollowness that burrowed into the pit of her stomach, telling her that it was over, and to get used to the empty space in her life.

Martin wanted to be friends, and so did she; the heated emotions of the moment fizzled somewhat over the days that passed, and flying together became that little bit less painful. At least, Deborah could bear to look at him; that was something. Both of them would smile, and try to make jokes, but neither Deborah nor Martin seemed able to stand the effort.

Then came the anger; that moment of clarity that Deborah had felt the night that they had ended things remained alive, feeding off her sadness, and it was only after a week that she realised what it was. It was that same indignant rage that had fuelled her years before, before Martin had been more than the pernicious Captain that she’d bid farewell to after a long and trying day.

It was the anger that had faded from her teases and remarks, leaving only fondness and affection in the place of what had once been biting and sarcastic; now it was back with a vengeance, saving Deborah from the clutches of depression and miserable wasting away. Martin wanted before, here it was; as Deborah’s interactions returned to their days of yore, picking up on things that would make him squirm, Martin reacted just as he had at the beginning, irritable and resigned.

The only difference was that although Martin rolled his eyes, snapped at her if he was in a particularly bad mood, sighed and hummed dejectedly, Deborah had yet to hear a single protestation, or any insistence that ‘ _I’m the Captain’_ , or a parrying shot about _her_.

Hope; that was what that was. An infinitesimal flicker of hope in Deborah’s chest that whispered that things might just end well for them, even after everything that had happened; Martin wasn’t fighting back, and he wasn’t protesting his rank, which meant that he _knew_ she didn’t mean it, he _knew_ that it was just her way of coping, no matter how much it annoyed him. And he was putting up with it for the sake of putting things back the way that were.

When that thought had wandered unbidden through Deborah’s mind, all that she could think was that ‘the way things were’ was what had led to them falling for each other in the first place; they were fixable.

But Deborah wasn’t going to make the first move; it wouldn’t be in character, to the point that the very idea of exposing her desires, her feelings, made her stomach churn and her throat clench. Trying to move first had been what had broken them in the first place.

Martin was making an effort, he still cared, and he wanted things to go back to normal; not only that, but she would catch him looking, staring at her from the opposite side of the desk, despite the both of them pushing as far to the opposing ends as was physically possible. He looked, and even though they bickered more than they had in years, Martin couldn’t quite keep that soppy light from his eyes when he looked at her, even when he was trying to slam her and come out on top.

They still communicated as if they were a couple; it hurt when she noticed them doing it, but Deborah was well aware that ‘just friends’ didn’t synchronise their tracks across the workplace, or buy two of everything when at cafes, or look to each other for everything from confirmation of simple actions to the punch lines of jokes.

If she waited, and was patient, and made sure to make it very clear that every tease was made out of affection…Martin would want her back, and he would take that step, and she would say yes. Everything was going to be okay.

For now though, it was still a strain not to lash out accidently, for both of them; this was made only slightly worse by the fact that Carolyn had left them in charge of MJN for the week, providing the perfect opportunity to pull pranks and tease Martin and his presumption of supreme command in the absence of their CEO.

While the phone sat in the centre of their conjoined desks, Martin sat studiously on the far end of his side, pencilling in something that Deborah wasn’t entirely sure related to work, and she, for her part, slouched back in her seat, feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankles, swinging ever so slightly.

If she had to pick a mood to describe the morning so far, Deborah would have said tense; true, she had arranged a faux call or two to trick Martin, which irritated him to no end, but she assumed that he had done something similar, as he kept glancing at the phone as if it might grow a head and bite him, before his eyes flickered up to her.

To Deborah’s surprise, there had even been fake calls that _neither_ of them had arranged; it was almost as if someone in Fitton had seen Carolyn leave, and realised that they could have some fun.

In addition, Arthur was mysteriously absent; in the past two weeks, that was an occurrence growing more common, as if he were avoiding the animosity between them. He probably was. To be fair, Deborah and Martin were being friends in the same sense that a new swimmer dips their toe in and out of the sea.

When the phone rang for the third time that day, Martin’s movements ceased, but he didn’t shift from where he was hunched over the desk; Deborah swivelled her chair so that she could survey the length of the desks, resisting the temptation to poke him with the end of her shoe as the phone continued to emit a tinny ring.

“Your turn, I think.” Deborah remarked dryly, nodding pointedly at the device as Martin lifted his head and straightened out his back; today was one of those days where the pleasantries were marred by an underlying wash of disdain, brought on by all of the other problems. Taking turns was a step in the right direction, even if it did mean that fifty per cent of the effort _had_ to be shared.

Martin made an annoyed little tutting sound, and rolled his eyes, but thrust his arm out to take the phone, pressing it against his ear with what might have been a bit too much force, if the wince that twisted his lips was any indicator.

“Hello?” he announced as was proper, reaching out with his free hand to fetch a pen, ready as always to jot down anything that he might need to remember for later; Deborah watched unashamedly, slipping her arms around her chest and settling back in her chair, “MJN Air. Captain Martin Crieff speaking.”

A moment passed, in which Martin nodded reflexively, tapping the pen against his fingers; Deborah couldn’t decide whether a job would be a good or a bad thing. It would give them something to jointly focus on if nothing else.

“Certainly. May I take your name?” Martin inquired, hand poised and ready; then his expression morphed into a sardonic smirk, and he shot Deborah a sideways glance, shaking his head and laughing sarcastically, “Are you?” then another pause, in which he pouted pitifully at Deborah, to her confusion, “What a coincidence.” She really had no idea what was going on, “Oh, it’s just that I’m the Lord High Archduke Martin of Crieffstonia.”

It was in that moment, as Martin was rolling his eyes at her, drifting between sardonic appreciation of some wit that he must have been attributing to her, conceding her talent, and self-satisfaction that he had riddled out her scheme, that a sinking sensation rolled into her abdomen; Deborah couldn’t help but stiffen, lowering her feet to the ground as she pricked her ears and tried to assess just how deep a hole Martin had stuck his foot into this time.

“Now what can I do for you?” Martin was asking, eyes narrowed as he tackled whoever was on the other end of the phone, barely giving them time to answer before he ploughed onwards, growing overconfident, as was his perfected style that at any other time Deborah would have rather enjoyed, “Is it a dragon? D’you need rescuing from a dragon? Only I know what you princesses are like.”

Now that might be a little bit not good; Deborah decided that for the sake of Martin’s safety, and self-esteem, now was a good moment to chip in before he became too accidently insulting. The only issue was doing so without indulging in either the prickle of sadism, her own self-importance, or an overly sentimental show of concern.

“Er, Martin.” Deborah spoke quietly, clearing her throat to get his attention, and leaning forwards, stopping with her hand outstretched, hovering where she had been about to tap at his elbow; Martin hummed in acknowledgement, and quirked an eyebrow at her, a smug smile tugging at his lips, “This is nothing to do with me.”

“No, of _course_ not!” Martin replied, turning his seat so that he could face her, rolling his head in tandem with the bout of sarcastic disbelief; the phone was still pressed to his ear.

“No! Really!” Deborah implored him, taking care not to speak too loudly lest their potential customer hear them, raising both eyebrows pointedly; thankfully, Martin must have seen the concerned honesty in her expression, as his own eyes blew wide, and his bottom lip dragged through his teeth.

“E-e-e-e-excuse me;” Martin stuttered into the phone, cheeks turning red as he raised a second hand to the receiver and gulped, throat bobbing apologetically, like a fish caught on a line, “can you wait a minute?” then he pressed the phone to his chest as if that might block out the noise, and glared desperately at Deborah, “Seriously, Deborah – this isn’t one of your mates?”

“Who is it?” Deborah asked patiently; this was something that they could sort out together, it didn’t need to blow up in their faces.

“The Princess of Liechtenstein!” Martin hissed, pressing the phone even further into his chest; oh, of course! _Martin_ must have set it up himself; the trepidation in Deborah’s guts lessened its hold, and she had to admit, she admired his initiative. She wouldn’t have used such an outlandish character, perhaps, but never mind.

“No.” Deborah drawled, settling back into her seat, a small smirk appearing on her lips; there was no reason that she couldn’t play along, enjoy the game, “The Princess of Liechtenstein is not one of my mates.”

“Right! Fine!” Martin snapped hastily; before Deborah could react, he had thrust the phone into her hands, and retracted his arms as if it might burn him, throwing her in the deep end, as if she would actually fall for his scheme, “Then you talk to her!”

“With pleasure.” Deborah retorted smoothly, lifting the phone to press it lightly against her ear, making sure to hold Martin’s gaze as he glared back at her suspiciously, “Hello. This is First Officer Deborah Richardson. I do apologise. We’ve been getting some hoax calls this week. Now, how can we help you?”

 _“Well, I am Princess Theresa of Liechtenstein and I was hoping to charter you to fly the king and I from Vaduz to Fitton.”_ a womanly, mid-European accent came down the line, patient, despite the grilling the woman had received already; Deborah couldn’t help the small, warm smile that she sent Martin’s way, admittedly entertained by the fantastical lengths that he had gone to in order to fool her.

“But of course!” Deborah exclaimed, batting a hand through the air; as Martin’s eyes barrowed in confusion, she winked playfully, “To fly The King And I? Well, this is The Sound of Music to our ears! Why, not since we flew Madam Butterfly to the South Pacific have we had …”

“Deborah! It’s nothing to do with me either!” Martin hissed abruptly; Deborah didn’t bother to lower the phone or try to muffle the speakers as she paused, and took in his jittery demeanour.

“Yes it is; but I must say dear, answering it yourself first was a very artistic touch.” Deborah remarked wryly, rolling her eyes at him.

“Look at me Deborah! Actually _look_ at me!” Martin demanded, leaning forwards in frustration and gesticulating furiously at his chest, teeth gritted and jaw set; Deborah felt a pang of guilt, realising that Martin had in fact noticed the sarcastic filter that she had been watching him through in the past two weeks, and finally, genuinely looked into his eyes, “It’s not me!”

As Martin held her gaze, chest heaving ever so slightly in agitation, cheeks red with exertion, Deborah had to purse her lips against the rush of dismal understanding; Martin sighed and say back as her eyes widened, and her wrist flopped imperceptibly under the weight of the phone.

“Well, it’s not me!” Deborah hissed desperately, bewildered, holding the phone away from her as she wheeled her chair a little closer to Martins; he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and dragged his old laptop closer as she tentatively lifted the phone back to her ear at the sound of the voice crackling into the air.

 _“Okay! So this has been a lot of fun, but have we perhaps reached the point where one of you might consider googling the words ‘Theresa’ and ‘Liechtenstein’?”_ the woman, (Theresa, Deborah was now willing to admit that she might actually be who she said she was) asked, sounding as if her patience might only continue so far.

“Deborah, look.” Martin whispered; before she could turn to look at what he had found, Deborah found herself being jostled as he wheeled his chair clumsily up to hers, and plopped his computer down on top of the paperwork that she had been neglecting, only to reveal a very information Wikipedia page, “I’ve just …”

“Your Royal Highness.” Deborah drawled brightly, praying that they hadn’t managed to lose an entire job between them; Carolyn would kill them, and no breakup was worth that, “How may we be of service?”

oOoOoOo

The atmosphere hadn’t become any easier with the intricacies of flying a plane to distract then; Deborah found that she was just as hyper-aware of Martin as she ever was, and so was he if his ever more frequent squirming and sideways glances were anything to go by.

In the past two weeks, it hadn’t all been bad days, but today definitely was, despite Deborah’s efforts otherwise; the lack of Carolyn, the hoax calls and the opportunity to raise each other’s hackles, and the relationship themed conversation courtesy of Herc, flaunting his and Carolyn’s perfect romance, had simply made it impossible not to wallow in the horrible, bitter prickles that churned beneath every second.

In truth, it did help a little that Arthur was there to interrupt the awkward silence, but he seemed quite reluctant to hang around too long. Deborah wanted them to just get along so that they could fix things, and she was willing to plough through her currently unpleasant feelings regarding Martin, but half way to Liechtenstein, Herc’s words from before were still ringing in her head, as if magnified by the slim metal shell that cased them.

“So … Martin.” Deborah breached the rhythmic hum of the engines, inwardly cursing how cautious her own voice sounded; she didn’t look at him, and stared instead at where her fingers curled around the end of the arm of her seat, “What sort of team would your exes make?”

She knew it was wrong, and that it would rile him up, but Deborah hadn’t been able to quash the flickers of jealousy that had alighted earlier that day; it was like a compulsion that countered every coping mechanism she had devised. If she played it as a game, filled with cheer, then perhaps Martin wouldn’t mind so much.

“What?” Martin spurted, glancing bewildered across the gap between them; it hadn’t been apparent how stiffly he had been sitting until he shifted self-consciously, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “No team. You know I’ve never been married.”

“Mmm, but what about ex-girlfriends?” Deborah replied swiftly, aiming for nonchalance, but suspecting that as she continued to stare ahead, and at anything that wasn’t Martin, she only sounded jealous at best; she knew that she shouldn’t push, but she just couldn’t stop herself.

“I’m not telling you that.” Martin retorted, turning his head back to stare at the sky; as his voice trailed off, Deborah snatched at the opportunity to sneak a glance at his face, and was caught off guard by the introspective frown that dragged down his whole posture, “Nothing good can come of it.”

“Okay.” Deborah conceded, nodding stiltedly; she had been right, this was a bad idea. No good could come of stirring up the messy tangle of emotions between them, especially not thousands of feet in the air, in control of a metal tube full of flammable liquid; or anywhere for that matter.

“That’s private.” Martin reiterated, flattening his palm where it hovered above the arm of his seat, his eyes burning into the back of it; at that, Deborah’s back straightened infinitesimally, and she turned to stare unhindered at him. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was the evasive tone of voice that Martin adopted when he had backed himself into a corner, and refused to back down from a dare; Deborah assumed that this was evidence of how sensitive he was feeling, as she hadn’t even pushed that hard.

“Absolutely.” Deborah agreed softly, blinking foggily a few times, wetting her lips; the faint pang in her chest wouldn’t let her forget that she cared far too much about Martin’s happiness to upset him over something so raw, “Forget I asked.”

Except, Martin didn’t seem to be on the same page as he continued to turn his cock his head from side to side, gnawing on his bottom lip; now that she thought about it, Deborah didn’t know what she had expected from the man that hadn’t let anything go in the five years that they’d known each other. Whether he was trying to win, making a point, or simply wanted to share…Martin could be indecipherable.

“How-how-how-how many people in a bobsled?” Martin inquired, trying to sound as if he didn’t care, but missed the mark by miles; he didn’t look up to meet her wide eyed surprise, but instead picked at the threads on the seat.

“Four…” Deborah replied, inhaling deeply so as not to make him think that she might even for a moment be teasing him, or considering such an act; she folded her arms over her chest, pursing her lips and attempting not to stare at the flush of Martin’s cheeks.

“Oh.” Martin made a dejected little sound, head drooping; he still didn’t make eye contact, and Deborah couldn’t help but feel bad, and annoyed that she might have upset him over her own morbid curiosity.

“There’s five in a basketball team, if that helps.” Deborah suggested brightly, plastering on a thin smile; it took all of her power not to shrug helplessly, making it even more obvious that she was taking pity on his miserable self.

“It doesn’t.” Martin answered drearily; he let out a put-upon sigh, that was almost a groan, but Deborah was too busy processing the implications of that statement.

She was his _third_ girlfriend? It briefly flitted through her mind that he wasn’t that pathetic (and she would know), which only served to make the moths that had been hibernating in her chest flutter and stretch their wings. Deborah could tease, or she could be completely honest in just how _touched_ she was; or, far more doable, she could overcompensate with jovial companionable banter.

“Ah.” Deborah remarked awkwardly; she reaching into her pocket to withdraw her phone, itching to do anything to move the subject matter along, to drag it out without focusing on what actually mattered, “I don’t think there’s anything with three.”

“No …” Martin sighed, barely sparing her a glance as she tapped away at her phone; that was the problem lately, the both of them had been too wrapped up in their own heads to may each other much mind beyond petty squabbles and forced niceties, “… there wouldn’t be.”

“Hang on; I’ll look it up.” Deborah told him cheerfully, forcing a wan smile as she bared down in the device in her hands; she _knew_ that he wouldn’t appreciate it, but she had to do something to get their rhythm back, and if that meant playful joshing, then the distraction that it provided was welcome.

“There’s really no need.” Martin groaned, leaning his head into his hand, eyebrows knitting in a show of exhaustion; not that he was paid any notice regardless, as Deborah was too engrossed in scrolling through a list of results.

“Pétanque!”she exclaimed, hastily putting her phone away and turning to smirk at Martin across the impenetrable space between them.

“What?” Martin continued to stare at her, his face a picture of bewilderment; that would have been a rational moment to stop pushing the subject and merely carry on as they had been, but for some reason that she couldn’t explain, Deborah was almost pulled by the need to keep going, however hysterically.

“There’s three players in a pétanque team!” Deborah declared proudly, too overexcited to the ear, but unable to rectify that without appearing nervous; took the controls to hand, something to ground herself, and continued to hold a false smile, “You know, boules – like old Frenchmen play.”

“Go on, then.” Martin replied, his tone laced with resignation; upon further inspection, Deborah realised that there was not even a trace of humour in his face, or his posture. That alone made her retract her hand to curl her arms once more around her chest, noting how his hands moved to take his controls without a word, long bony fingers curling purposefully as he took over.

“What?” Deborah asked weakly, pouting at the expectant set of Martin’s jaw, and the unimpressed dullness in his eyes; she was only playing, she had thought that was what he wanted, to get along like they were supposed to.

“Well, I know you only asked me so I would ask you.” Martin explained wryly, clicking his tongue and swallowing as if the idea physically irritated his throat; that would be understandable, as it made Deborah’s perky mood vaporise, and her heart plummet, “What sort of a team would your ex-boyfriends be?”

His words felt like being struck in the stomach by a ten pound weight; despite all her efforts, all of their time together, everything she had given him as she opened up to him during their relationship, Martin still didn’t trust her. Not loving her the way that she loved him seemed insignificant when Deborah gaped momentarily, and realised that even after all that time, Martin would still hear an affectionate jest and believe that she was baiting him.

Tearing her eyes from his face, Deborah glared out into the sky, squeezing her arms where they hung stiffly around herself; angry was better than sad, and it was far easier to let herself be carried by a twinge of sarcastic vindictiveness. It wasn’t as if it would be the first time.

“Hmmm.” Deborah hummed in thought, shrugging her shoulders flippantly and narrowing her eyes, though she didn’t allow herself to clock Martin’s reaction; he thought that she wanted to boast about her conquests, as a way to _hurt_ him, then fine, “Well, you know the start of the London Marathon …?”

“Yes, all right!” Martin retorted sourly; when she heard him sigh dejectedly, Deborah made herself glance towards him, just a peek from the corner of her eyes, and saw to her disappointment that he looked truly miserable, one arm propped at the elbow of the arm of his seat, chin dropped unceremoniously on his curled fist, while he dutifully kept an eye on the controls.

Perhaps she had been too harsh on him? Again. After all, Martin was hurting too; even though it was insulting, and wrong, he thought that she was rubbing his face in her success…and that must have been upsetting.

“Were there really only two people before me?” Deborah asked quietly, hugging herself a little more tightly; better to simply get to the crux of her frantic games than to let Martin wallow in things that just weren’t true. She didn’t want to hurt him; Deborah was just trying not to hurt herself with the constant barrage of _Martin_ that her brain thrust upon her.

“No, three.” Martin corrected; apparently the impulse to be factually correct was greater than the need to maintain a detached coolness, as he turned to stare at her, forehead crinkled in confusion, sitting up a little straighter with the movement.

“Then what-” Deborah began, making sure that even though she met Martin’s gaze, her back remained pressed against the back of her seat, like a brace; but she was cut off abruptly.

“I’m not counting you.” Martin interjected; when Deborah’s features softened in surprise, and her mouth opened yet no sound escaped, his eyes flickered down, and biting down on his bottom lip, Martin shifted and leaned forwards to pay the control panel unnecessary attention.

“Because you’re still holding out hope?” Deborah inquired, finally, when the humming of the engines seemed to slice through what was otherwise a stiff and uncomfortable silence; though she watched his cheeks lose some of their flush, when Martin’s eyes rose once more, hers dropped to stare at her knees.

“No, because I don’t want to think of you as my Ex.” Martin replied, as if the words physically threatened to choke him; Deborah still didn’t meet his eyes, the hopeful glimmer fading, “You’re my friend, not some woman that I’m cutting out of my life.”

“I see.” Deborah sighed, pushing her hair behind her ears for a lack of anything constructive to do; there was something jarring, yet completely expected, about the fact that Martin didn’t _want_ her back. She had never considered it, at all, even when she was lashing out at him.

“Ex sounds like an ending, and we’re not-” Martin explained, his voice reedy as if he were trying to grasp at the correct phrasing, forcing away any kind of stutter; that was all Deborah needed to hear, all that she needed for the flicker of hope to relight.

“I understand Martin, I really do.” She replied, glancing up fleetingly to smile a wan smile, apologetic, a peace offering; if Martin didn’t want to close the door between them completely, then there was a chance that they could be fixed, “If I’m honest, you weren’t a part of that marathon I mentioned.”

“Yes, thank you…” Martin sighed, but even though he sounded weary, a faint smile was beginning to form on his lips, as if he were being reluctantly swayed in the right direction.

There was hope.

oOoOoOo

There was no hope. Not even a shred.

On the drive to the castle, everything had seemed fine; strained and a little uncomfortable, but Deborah had really been trying. As both of the pilots had to fly for the rest of the day, Arthur had been allowed to drive them to and from the castle. Martin had been pinning his medals to his jacket, and once she had moved past the fact that in all the years they had known each other he had never told her about his time in the air cadets, or his medal, things still didn’t pick up.

It was true, the pang of dejection at the revelation of what must have been a large part of Martin’s life _did_ upset her, but Deborah was sure that her insistence upon teasing him about them had been affectionate, a fond prod, just as she would have done before they had ever been together. The sort of teasing that Martin had fallen in love with to begin with.

He didn’t get angry, but he did bat her hand away with an air of resignation; Martin no longer wanted to play, not while her attempts at drawing him into her games posed a threat to his proud stature.

And then Theresa and Maxi appeared, and any sense of hope, of happiness that might have been flickering in her chest was replaced by a throttling, frozen misery that left her lips trembling when she reached around the front passenger seat to watch the woman, eyes prickling, as she groped and fondled Martin…and Martin barely put up a fight.

Maxi, Deborah liked; he was rude, and prissy, and a bit like Martin, so Deborah rather liked the precocious little sod. Theresa on the other hand…was a lovely person; she couldn’t be faulted, save for the fact that she didn’t even try to hide her salacious flirting with their Captain.

She drawled, and cooed, and ran her hands over Martin’s chest as she inspected his medals, teasing the way that Deborah had, but in such a way that made Martin blush and swallow and stutter under her ministrations. Martin glanced subtly towards Deborah every now and again, almost guiltily, but he made no efforts to stop the other woman from showering him with affection.

It was almost as if his captainly pride had found a new source; look at me, look, I can be admired by someone that isn’t you, somebody else thinks I’m attractive, I don’t need you.

Whilst busy fighting the hot burning behind her eyes at his preening, Deborah entertained the painful realisation that Theresa was doing the one thing that she couldn’t; she was openly and courageously demonstrating her desire.

Even now, while she was terrified that someone better, richer, younger, more beautiful, and infinitely braver, was entrancing Martin right before her eyes, Deborah knew that she could never just _tell_ Martin to take her back, that she still loved him to the point that she barely thought of anything else, that watching him fall for this other woman was like taking a knife to the gut.

And where they stood, Martin would never turn down a woman like Theresa because of a lingering affection for someone who could only show him affection via teasing remarks.

Deborah put up with his flaws, rather adored them actually, listened to him when he spoke, encouraged him to broaden his horizons, and shared similar interests; and she loved him. Theresa appeared to be able to do all that, but she was also sarcastic in a more pleasant way than Deborah was, her bolshiness impressed Martin in a way that Deborah’s never had, and she wasn’t afraid of her feelings.

In short, she was exactly Martin’s type…only a thousand times better.

Now, Martin had left Deborah alone in the flight-deck to talk to _her_ , to apologise for the delay, he said; but he had been gone far too long for that to be true.

It wasn’t fair; Deborah rubbed her hand over her eyes, making sure to pay attention to the controls, lest she accidently send them plummeting into Fitton airfield at an unpleasant angle. Perhaps her teasing had backfired, riled him up, made him uncaring of the fact that Deborah was there to witness his back and forth with the princess. Maybe he wanted to hurt her.

Or, more probably, everything that Deborah had accused him of when they had split up was true. Two weeks, and she was still aching from the loss, yet still completely besotted; two weeks, and Martin didn’t care enough not to flirt with another woman in front of her.

All that Deborah could do was cling to a slither of hope; if he loved her at all, if there was any part of him that didn’t want to close that door yet, Martin would leave any newfound attraction alone. He wouldn’t do anything that might hurt her more.

oOoOoOo

Anger was better than pain; something that Deborah kept telling herself as Theresa told Martin all about how much she loved flying, how much she wanted to be a pilot, how much she admired that he had achieved his dream.

Deborah actually _was_ a pilot, she _loved_ aviation, she’d have known why they were flying in circles in an instant; but Theresa was better. Theresa wouldn’t mock Martin the way that _she_ did, Martin obviously thought that Theresa was much more impressive.

So Deborah tried to block out what she was hearing, curled in her seat so that her back was almost to the centre of the porta-cabin, arms wrapped around her chest, pouting and staring glassy eyed at a dusty corner, while the two of them ignored her completely.

Then the sat-com rang, and Deborah grasped at the hope that maybe, just maybe, even if Martin remained enamoured with the princess, she would begin to see him through the same pitying spectacles that everyone else did; she didn’t want to bring Martin down, or degrade him, but Deborah couldn’t stop herself.

Of course, that didn’t happen; Deborah watched in silent horror, like the witness of a sinking ship, as Theresa tore into Carolyn, defending Martin’s honour, making his face light up, his eyes widen, and a dazzled glow tint his aura. Of _course_ …

Of course, that would make Martin fall head over heels; Martin, who had a particular weakness for strong women. Martin, who had been blinded by demanding Hester McCauley, and that self-righteous pilot from Cal Air, who had made it clear that the thing he loved the most about Deborah, apart from the moments when she opened up to the possibility of being more fluffy and vulnerable, was how competently she dealt with everything from divorce to sexism, to bullies that the company encountered. He loved how she could come across a shouty man from the training centre, or a rude Australian, and simply raise an eyebrow and cut them down to size.

But Theresa was better, because she wasn’t fluffy or vulnerable underneath that; she was the leader of a small country, and able to unleash her wrath whilst looking absolutely stunning, not a dark hair out of place, or giving away anything that might be used against her.

By the time that the sat-com clicked off, Deborah was certain that neither of them even realised that her eyes were watering imperceptibly, or that she was clenching her hands where they tucked into her arms; nor that she felt as if her insides were being carved out, and only a vacuum left in their place.

“ _Wwwwow!”_ Martin exclaimed, his voice thick with desire as he gazed up at Theresa, hands pressed together as if she had presented the Holy Grail, or performed some sort of erotic miracle; Deborah felt like choking, “That was amazing! I thought you said you weren’t that sort of princess?”

“No, but my mother is.” Theresa answered bashfully, placing a hand on her waist and batting her eyelashes, oblivious to how agonising such an action was, too busy being a genuinely nice person and entrancing the Captain, “That was basically her.”

“Thank you so much.” Martin exulted, still breathy, as if overwhelmed with wonder; it was sickening, and Deborah had no idea how he was doing it; he had never spoken to _her_ like that, “You saved my life.”

“Yes, well – always useful to have a princess around to rescue you from dragons.” Theresa drawled bashfully, going so far as to wink playfully at him; Deborah wanted to slap her, but couldn’t muster more than another wave of misery that made it harder to breathe.

“Honestly, I-I-I don’t know how I can thank you.” Martin replied gratefully, shaking his head as if in amazement, rubbing at the back of his neck and blowing out between his lips; it was at that point that Deborah noticed that this was the happiest she had seen him in two weeks, and her heart broke all over again.

“Well – think of something.” Theresa remarked suggestively; oh, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Martin was clever, not nearly slow enough to miss the implication of her eyes fixed on his. Deborah tried not to sniffle as she scowled and shifted even further away from them in her seat, extracting one arm to poke at the controls; any kind of distraction, without being noticed, that was what she needed.

“… Okay.” Martin brought his hands down and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, eyes frantically flickering in thought; unable to fight the morbid curiosity, Deborah turned just enough so that she could see both of them in their own little world.

“I’m waiting.” Theresa reminded him, placing her hand atop the back of his seat; that was it, she could keep waiting, and Martin could keep thinking, and eventually Theresa would get bored waiting for Martin’s brain to catch up with him.

“Okay …” Martin muttered, his movements stilling as he narrowed his eyes, sheepishly rubbing his hands together; he turned to better peer at Theresa over the back of his seat, leaning forwards when he realised where her hand was, “I … I am thinking of something.”

“Yes?” Theresa asked hopefully, expression open and pleasant; there was no way that Martin could possibly mistake it for anything but what it was.

“But I don’t know if it’s the same thing you’re thinking of.” Martin remarked, wincing at himself, eyebrows pinching as he grimaced apologetically at the woman; Deborah had no doubt that he was thinking of something wonderfully Martinish, and nothing that anyone else could ever imagine.

“No, well, you won’t know until you try, will you?” Therese prompted, her patience visibly wavering, just a fraction; Deborah hated herself for wishing failure upon him, but above the trickling depression in her ears, she was praying at full volume for Martin to say something wildly inappropriate.

“Okay …” Martin started, pausing and sucking in a sharp breath; then he turned his head imperceptibly, and his eyes met Deborah’s, asking, guilty, pointedly, she didn’t know; all that she knew was that a flare of indignant, painful anger burned from her toes to the tip of her nose, and she smirked coldly at him, daring him ‘ _go on then’._ Martin knew exactly what he was doing, he hadn’t forgotten her, he _knew_ that asking Theresa on a date would hurt her, and he was checking with Deborah before he did it, whether to save her feelings, of wound her further, she didn’t know.

“Well …” Martin’s jaw set, and if he had been hoping that Deborah would beg him not to do it, he was sadly mistaken; upon receiving only a furious, trembling glare, his cheeks flushed, and he asked determinedly, tearing his eyes away to meet Theresa’s (who had noticed none of this), “Would you like to go to Duxford Air Museum with me?”

Duxford? Martin’s favourite place in the world, where every woman to pass through GERTI save herself had been invited to; Deborah could have collapsed in on herself, but inhaling raggedly, and adopting an indignant, furious demeanour was so much more rewarding, sitting stiffly and silently to the side.

“Okay, so it’s not what I was thinking of …” Theresa replied after a moment, pursing her lips on controlled surprise; it wasn’t shocking really, Deborah doubted that she had ever met anyone quite like Martin.

“Oh God!” Martin exclaimed desperately, raising his hands in surrender; his face flushed an astounding shade of red, “I’m so sorry! I should never have asked …”

“No, but it’s not bad.” Theresa interjected, laughing a little; the sound made Deborah force another wave of anger to try and wash away the painful ache that bubbled in her chest, “We can go tomorrow?”

“Really?” Martin asked quietly, blinking, stunned up at her; at this rate, he would forget that he was flying a plane at all, Deborah thought as she reached past him to silence a beeping alarm, taking care not to let her arm brush against him. Not that he noticed.

In fact, Deborah fazed out everything until she heard the flight-deck door click closed behind them; Theresa was gone, and Martin was sitting in stunned silence, not gloating, just sitting there, turning his hat over in his hands. She couldn’t help herself, even though it pained her.

“Well!” Deborah exclaimed sarcastically, hating how viciously cold she sounded; it wasn’t like she wanted to hurt Martin, but then again, she almost did after the stunt that he had just pulled.

“Did she just …” Martin asked, trailing off as he raised his head to run his eyes over her; Deborah’s shoulders stiffened, and she narrowed her eyes at him, taking in the drooping nature of his limbs, and the tentatively baffled slackness of his face.

“Oh, yes, Martin! Yes she did.” Deborah sneered, gripping the controls tightly with one hand, pushing the other through her hair; she didn’t want to hope any more, she just wanted him to feel exactly as dejected and rejected as she did, “Congratulations, Martin. You’ve got yourself … a bobsled. I am officially, your fourth _Ex_.”

There was a moment of silence, in which Martin gaped at her, eyes wide and dewy, as if she had spoken another language; he couldn’t _honestly_ have thought that they were still okay after _that_?

“No, Deborah…” Martin started, but she wouldn’t allow him to finish; she didn’t want to hear whatever excuses he had to make. He had made the same excuses for years; I didn’t think that you minded, I didn’t mean to insult you, I can’t help that I need respect, etcetera, etcetera…

“Yes, Martin.” Deborah snapped, sucking air into her lungs to avoid choking or letting her eyes water, “Now land the bloody plane so that I can go home.”

“Deborah…” Martin repeated; her head snapped around, and she glared at him, barely registering the sad little tremble of his lips, or the way that his hand hovered in the air between them. What the hell was he expecting to happen?

“No, Martin!” Deborah didn’t quite raise her voice, but it made him freeze; she didn’t want to talk to him now, not for a while if she didn’t have to.

So, feeling as if Martin’s eyes were on her the entire time, they landed the plane in silence, save for the necessary communications with Karl. And when the safety checks had been wordlessly completed, Martin not even protesting at the unprofessional manner in which everything was check, Deborah waited for him to get up and exit the flight-deck to guide the passengers from GERTI, before storming back to the porta-cabin when she was sure that they were at the taxi. She most certainly did not cry.

oOoOoOo

Deborah was about halfway across the airfield when she felt a hand clasp her elbow, pulling her to a stop. She spun around, half prepared to tear into whoever had dared to try and stop her leaving, only to find that she almost ran into Arthur, who was blinking down at her, concern scrawled across his face.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, cautiously, as if afraid that she might bite; after a small tug on her behalf, he released Deborah’s arm, and shoved his hands in his pockets, otherwise not moving.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Deborah retorted smoothly, plastering on a false smile, and bringing her arms up to wrap around her chest, a feat made more difficult by the flight-bag that she had hoisted over her shoulder; all she wanted to do was go home and wallow in her misery. If they stood outside for too long, there was always the chance that Martin might emerge and try to talk to her again.

“Well, I just thought you might be upset, because Theresa said that she was going on a date with Skip, and then I thought that Skip doing that in front of you wasn’t very good of him.” Arthur explained, shrugging as if it were no big deal, not really; it took no effort on his behalf to care, Deborah supposed, and she let the tension in her shoulders slowly fade as he continued, evidently encouraged by her cooperation, “So, I thought then, that maybe you might be upset.”

“Let no one say you haven’t been trained to be the wisest of us all.” Deborah drawled weakly, quirking her eyebrows as she glanced past his shoulder, towards the porta-cabin; if she was jittering in her desperation to leave, Arthur didn’t mention it.

“Thanks Deborah.” Arthur chirped, a smile sneaking its way onto his lips; it didn’t survive though, as he shuffled his feet and continued slowly, “But, you know…even though you’re sad, and what Skip did wasn’t brilliant, I think you should still try not to be angry with him. Because, you want him to be happy, don’t you?”

“Not this quickly!” Deborah snapped, and then clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head and pushing the heel of her palm against her eyes, which watered slightly as Arthur made a twitching motion, as if to step forwards and reach out to her; exhaling steadily, Deborah met Arthur’s eyes, and her resolve shattered, “It’s been _two weeks_ , Arthur, and he’s already off with some other woman…I’m an emotional _wreck_ , and Martin barely cares enough to-”

“He does care.” Arthur insisted, his forehead crinkling desperately, “He loves you.”

“Clearly not.” Deborah replied sourly, mentally steeling herself; it wasn’t working. She just couldn’t process why Martin would do this to her; it wasn’t fair, and he was a liar if he claimed to love her.

Before she was truly aware of it, Arthur had bridged the space between them and placed an arm over her shoulders, pulling her against his side; even though she wanted to push him away, Deborah didn’t, taking the comfort where it was being offered.

“Do you want to come round mine?” Arthur asked, as he began walking them towards parked cars, “We could chat…you know…”

“No.” Deborah answered swiftly; when Arthur didn’t say anything in return, she was plagued by a pang of guilt, on top of everything else. She supposed that it wouldn’t be too awful to talk to someone; sucking up her misery, and pushing the back of her hand across her eyes, Deborah suffocated any sign of sniffles that she may have been exuding, “I don’t feel like seeing Carolyn; how about you come round mine for a bit?”


	40. Wokingham

**Wokingham**

One month, and Deborah was still counting the days since she and Martin had been together. Then again, two weeks since she had heard anything about Theresa of Liechtenstein; for all of her internal panicking, Deborah was rather pleased that nothing had come of Martin’s trip to Duxford. If it had, he would have been gloating about his success.

And in the past fortnight, things between them had become easier; Deborah felt comfortable saying that they were even friends again. After the horrible trip to Vaduz, Deborah had been hit with the realisation that perhaps teasing Martin wasn’t the best way to win him back when everything was so raw between them; such an idea seemed painfully obvious when she considered that his main complaint was that she didn’t respect him.

So she had made an effort to be nicer; not ridiculously nice, or over the top, simply the pleasant, kindness and consideration that she had shown him when they had first been orbiting around each other, tentatively cementing their friendship. As if by some miracle, Martin responded to this beautifully, and within days, Deborah could barely find an inch of animosity between them.

Things still weren’t fine; there were uncomfortable silences, moments when one of them would say or do something that rehashed what they had once had, and instances where one or both of them would overstep a line…but all in all, Deborah was content within reason, and they were friends, able to play games, navigate around each other, laugh and tell jokes, and just be comfortable in each other’s presence once more.

So comfortable in fact, that despite her irritable protests of a morning, Martin seemed to have no problem whatsoever using his key to waltz into Deborah’s flat and rush her into work on time; even though she valued the sanctity of the morning, Deborah didn’t quite have the heart to take her extra key away from him.

On this particular morning, Deborah was sitting cross legged on the sofa, bowl of cereals cradled in her lap, still swaddled in her pyjamas; she had only been awake about an hour, most of which had been spent trying to configure her pillow into a position that would adequately lull her back into the world of sleep. And it was still only four am.

Carolyn had told them only yesterday that they would be flying a businesswoman to Vilnius for ten in the morning, which meant they had to be at the airfield by at least five am in order to take off for half six; to say that Deborah was disgruntled would have been an understatement. No rational human being was awake so early, and anyone that was had surely been possessed by some sort of demonic presence.

Even as she was thinking such thoughts, Deborah heard the clacking of a key in her front door, and as she turned until she could peer over the top of her sofa, she was met by the sight of Martin letting himself in, humming a cheerful tune under his breath; he must have already been up for hours if he wasn’t growling with coffee withdrawal.

“Wakey wakey, Deborah!” Martin called over his shoulder as he closed the door, nevertheless taking care not to let it slam, “Early flight today; you need to be up and out the door!”

When he turned around, Deborah observed that Martin’s lips were curled into a contented smile above his lightly flushed cheeks, stained pink by the wind; he took a few steps into the sitting room, turning his head this way and that as he searched for her, and even though she made no effort to alert him to her presence, his eyes fell on Deborah after only a moment.

“You’re not even dressed yet.” Martin remarked, as if it were a travesty to find her in such a manner; the bridge of his nose crinkled as he took in the firmly closed curtains, and the badly lit nature of the sitting room, “What are you doing?”

“I’m eating breakfast.” Deborah replied dryly as she settled back into the cushions, forcing him to come a little closer to see her face; she made a point of raising her spoon as slowly as possible, before slipping it through her lips, and repeating the motion, never breaking eye contact.

“Well, you _should_ be dressed and hopping in my van so that I can transport you to the airfield.” Martin told her, rolling his eyes at her as she chomped away; he moved close enough that he could rest his hands on the back of the sofa, “Honestly, I’ve _seen_ you be up and out of hotel room in twenty minutes; _how_ can it possibly take you so long to sort yourself out of a morning?”

“You’ve also seen me when I’m deprived of sleep, and so you are well aware that it’s not a pleasant experience.” Deborah remarked, quirking an eyebrow at him; she kicked her feet out to lie more comfortably, placing the still half full bowl on the coffee table. She wasn’t even that hungry at such an early hour; it was just the rational part of her brain telling her that she couldn’t fly on an empty stomach.

“I don’t know,” Martin smirked, letting a grin take over his face, as the tension in his shoulders eased somewhat; from this close, Deborah could just about identify the faint rings under his eyes, proving that at least she wasn’t the only one inconvenienced by their client, “You say some interesting at one in the morning.”

“Very private things that aren’t to be mentioned outside of the intimate sanctity of the relationship.” Deborah reminded him sternly, rising up on to her knees so that her glare was that much more intimidating; this was something else that Martin had been doing, slipping back into the rhythms of banter that they had maintained before, forgetting that there was a rift between them, “Or shall I bring up some of the things that you said?”

“I-I’m sorry.” Martin apologised hastily, straightening his back and moving away from the sofa as he blushed a deeper shade of scarlet, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth; and now Deborah felt bad for upsetting him, damn, “That was-”

“It’s fine.” Deborah interjected, swallowing the instinctual desire to tease him, and smiling instead, however weakly as she folded her arms atop the back of the sofa and rested her chin on the dipped structure, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Right, w-well…” Martin stuttered, nodding and swallowing hard, his throat bobbing with the effort; he clapped his hands together and rocked back on his heels, releasing a sort of truncated laugh too awkward to be anything but a self-reprisal, and exclaimed encouragingly, “We should be getting a move on – don’t want to rushing when we get to work, do we?”

If she was honest, all Deborah wanted was to go back to bed, but something about the imploring pout that Martin was wearing made it difficult to ignore the tugging sensation in her chest; it wouldn’t hurt to do as he asked for once.

“Give me twenty minutes, Captain.” Deborah instructed, heaving herself from the sofa before she could spend too long soaking in the radiant smile that lit up Martin’s face even further, as he preened triumphantly; definitely worth it.

oOoOoOo

Unsure of what else she could do, Deborah responded to Martin’s anxiety ridden horror by reaching across the space between them, and placing a consoling hand on his wrist, squeezing soothingly, a show of support; he was scared for his mother, and if he needed her, she would be there. While he tried to get the whole story out of Arthur, Deborah remained silent.

“ _No! No! I mean … oh, you really couldn’t have got that more wrong, Skip!”_ Arthur insisted, his attempt at prevarication failing dismally; but he wouldn’t lie, so Deborah was sure that as terrified as Martin was, his mother couldn’t be in too much trouble, “ _A-a heart attack i-is what she has not had_ ”

“What do you mean?! What has she had?” Martin demanded shrilly, his chest heaving as he worked himself up in an admirably short amount of time; he glanced desperately at Deborah, slipping his wrist from her grasp only to replace it with his hand, his fingers digging painfully into her knuckles. She could only offer a weak, almost non-existent thin lipped smile.

 _“Not a heart attack_!” Arthur didn’t quite explain, and it was almost possible to _see_ him wincing at being the deliverer of bad news, “ _She was very clear about that_!”

“Where is she?” Martin asked quickly, barely waiting for Arthur to inhale another breath; his hand was still crushing Deborah’s, so she supposed that she was doing some good at least, though that did little to alleviate the feeling of helplessness that she felt at not being able to do anything to make things better.

 _“Okay … when I tell you where she is, Skip, you’ve gotta not worry too much, because in fact …”_ Arthur stalled, though his meaning was obvious; there was no point refraining from rolling her eyes, as nobody was paying Deborah any attention.

“She’s in a hospital?” Martin squawked, interrupting Arthur’s floundering excuses as his eyes widened desperately and he cheeks blanched; this far away from home, there was little that he could do to help, and the redundant flapping of his free hand proved as much.

“ _How did you know?!”_ Arthur asked squeakily; it wasn’t until she heard Carolyn’s exasperated sigh from somewhere near her shoulder that Deborah remembered that she was there at all, so focused had she been on Martin.

“Tell her I’ll be there in three hours.” Martin told Arthur, sighed with resignation, before reaching across to flick the sat-com off, not waiting for a reply; when he slouched back in his chair, he didn’t release Deborah’s hand.

“D-do you think she’s alright?” Martin asked, his voice still frantic to match the shuddering of his chest, despite the dreary set of his shoulders; Deborah made sure to grip his hand particularly tightly in response, “I mean – of course she’s not alright, bu-but do you think she’s alright?”

“Yes.” Deborah replied calmly, softly, turning in her seat and tugging gently on Martin’s hand until he paused in his jittering and shifted to meet her gaze, worrying his lip between his teeth; it was such a pitiful sight that it made her heart want to topple from her chest in its race to get to him, “I’m sure it’s just a small accident.”

“Ha! Ac-ci-dent!” Deborah startled as from behind her, Carolyn’s triumphant voice rang out; she turned her head in tandem to Martin’s only to find the other woman staring at her, a smirk on her lips and a finger pointed proudly in the air.

“Carolyn!” Deborah scolded her, scowling furiously at her employer as Martin groaned and turned back to face the skies, finally pulling his hand from hers; the bloody woman couldn’t even take two minutes to be kind to the man that she had practically been flogging for five years.

“Oh, I’m sorry Martin.” Carolyn groaned, wincing at herself as she tentatively lifted a hand as if to place it on the back of his seat, then pulled back; Deborah pretended not to have seen the motion, “The moment we land you can head off; I’m sure Arthur will be happy to help Deborah clean up.”

“Thank you.” was all that Martin had to say, as he visibly drooped in his seat, hands curling around the controls like a drowning man to a life boat; drooped was how he remained, as neither Carolyn nor Deborah thought it fit to disturb his miserable silence.

Throughout the next few hours, Deborah left Martin to his thoughts, occasionally slipping her hand over his, squeezing encouragingly while he smiled wanly, gratefully each time; when they had landed, he insisted upon running through all the checks, and when he finally hoisted his flight bag over his shoulder, Deborah remained on his heels until he reached the porta-cabin, fighting with the stiff door, and eventually hurling his bag onto the desk while he rifled through his locker and hunted down his coat.

“So I – I need to get this - ” Martin murmured under his breath, loud enough that Deborah could just about make out every word as she stood in the middle of the porta-cabin, watching him snatch up his coat, only to drop it when he went to scrabble for his bag, “a-and I need this – oh, bugger - ”

Before he could drop down to retrieve his coat, after dropping his bag with an echoing clunk, Deborah hurried to pull Martin to a halt, placing her hands in his upper arms to straighten him up, and then slipping her palms up and over his shoulders, soothingly, like she had many times before.

“Martin, stop.” She instructed firmly, making sure to pinch the tender spot on his shoulders before stroking secure circles over the top; the last thing that Deborah wanted was for Martin to get in his van when he was so riled up, “Take deep breaths, and calm down before I have to put you down.”

Martin nodded hastily, his hands leaping up to grasp at the back of hers, though he didn’t remove them, simply held onto her; slowly but surely, the red began to recede from his cheeks, and as the heaving of his chest eased, so did the tension in his limbs.

“Good, well done, Captain.” Deborah congratulated him, making sure to smile warmly, even so keep a tight hold on Martin lest he sprint away; this she could help with, in this she could make things better, “Now, I am going to take your bag for you, and I’m going to drop it off at your house for you. That way you don’t have to worry about a thing other than getting yourself down to Wokingham, understand?”

“Yes – yes, _god_ , thank you.” Martin didn’t quite sigh, but more exhaled every breath that he had ever taken, eyes growing wide and watery with relief; before she could react, Martin had lunged forwards and wrapped his arms around Deborah, pulling her into a well practised hug, fingers curling into the material of her jacket as he tucked their heads together, close enough that Deborah could feel his breath on her ear, and could do little else but return the embrace, “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

It was a sentiment that she had heard so many times, in different circumstances, but Deborah didn’t say a word; instead, she cherished the first shred of intimacy she had received in a month, and closed her eyes as she relished the warmth and solidity of Martin pressed against her, held close in her arms.

Then he was gone, bumbling after his coat, and whirling out of the door; Deborah couldn’t blame him, she just hoped that what he found wouldn’t upset him too much.

oOoOoOo

Working alone with Carolyn was torturous, even though Deborah had known the woman for years, and would only reluctantly admit, trusted above most others; but she was willing to undertake such suffering so that Arthur could look after Martin’s mother, and Martin could try and fit caretaking around his already packed life of piloting and vanning.

Deborah had barely seen Martin over the last week, but the times that she had had been positive in terms of their relationship, and deeply worrying in terms of Martin as a whole. He had only been at the airfield twice, and both times he seemed exhausted, with black rings around his eyes, and a sleepy tinge to his skin as he behaved far more docilely than he ever had when not drunk.

Even so, it was a joy to actually see him on those sparse occasions, and even more of a joy to actually get to talk to him, and listen to him share his thoughts and fears about his mother’s health, and his hectic timetable; such conversations came over the phone. It had been a surprise when on the first evening since his mother’s hospitalisation, Deborah had picked up the phone to find Martin eager to relieve the weight of the day and seek the comfort of her wise words.

So his mother was fine, Martin was running himself ragged, and Deborah was sheepishly enjoying being able to lie in bed and offer words of comfort and consolation as he spilled his fears and general annoyances; it was just like before.

On the first day that Martin stayed in work for the full day, sort of pottering around and not doing a lot, Deborah made sure to keep one eye on him from behind their desks; it was a surprise when a shadow fell over the document that she was dutifully scanning, and Martin smiled shyly down at her when she lifted her head.

“Hey, Deborah.” Martin greeted her, as if he hadn’t been wandering around aimlessly for the past half hour, a tentative blush colouring his cheeks as he drew his bottom lip through his teeth; he made a show of peering at the papers under her hands, before his eyes flickered back up to meet hers, “Are you busy?”

“No more busy than you normally are when I interrupt you.” Deborah replied honestly, shrugging nonchalantly and pushing the papers away from her, instead resting her elbows on the desk and tenting her fingers; even though she was feeling light and airy just having him want to be in her presence, Deborah didn’t want to make Martin uncomfortable by being too unlike the her that he perceived, “I’m double checking your paperwork, just in case you’ve made any more sleep deprived mistakes.”

“Yeah, that last one was a bit awful wasn’t it?” Martin chuckled, running his hand over the back of his neck, and then reaching up to pluck his hat from his head and twist it between his hands; definitely exhausted if he wasn’t even slightly worried about his unprofessional mishap, in which they would have left all of their next client’s cargo in Sicily, instead of Hong Kong.

“Just a bit.” Deborah agreed fondly, quirking her eyebrows at him, enjoying the way that Martin smiled and cocked his head in response; this was how it should be between them, “What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing…I just, I-I wondered if we could talk –you know, properly.” Martin explained, whacking his hat against the palm of one hand, trying to appear nonchalant, but failing in his typical fashion, “I miss talking to you, e-especially now, when I could _really_ use someone to talk to that actually… _gets_ me, like you do.”

“Of course we can talk, you can _always_ talk to me.” Deborah reminded him seriously, frowning at him until he grimaced apologetically, and a pang of guilt rang in her chest; rolling her eyes and sighing, Deborah batted a hand towards the sofa, “Oh, go and sit down, I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Right, yes…” Martin mumbled distractedly, and began making his way raggedly over to the sofa, dropping down onto one end while Deborah rose from her seat and rounded the desk, following him in his own time.

Martin slumped on one end, kicking his legs out until they took up most of one half of the sofa, crossed at the knees as he slouched; Deborah felt that she had no other option but to mirror his posture, lowering herself down onto the opposite end of the cushions, and pulling her legs up to rest fully upon it, until their knees pressed together. Martin said nothing, but merely smiled warmly in response to her own pleasant show of affection.

“Alright then, what’s the problem?” Deborah inquired, toning down her cheer and merging it with concern, as she leaned forwards, resting her arms on her knees, bringing them that much closer, and making it easier to watch the expressions flit across Martin’s face.

“Oh, god, it’s not even a problem.” Martin groaned, rubbing his hands over his face momentarily muffling his voice; he leaned forwards as well, just enough to prop his elbows up on his thighs, adding feeling to emphasise his discontent, “I just need someone to vent at, that’s all.”

“Well vent away Darling.” Deborah proposed, extending a welcoming hand to him, before folding back into her comfortable position; surely she could fix something for him if he talked long enough, “It’s not as if I haven’t endured your chagrin before.”

“Yeah, s-sorry.” Martin shook his head at himself, his eyebrows furrowing briefly; then he exhaled sharply, and the words fell from his mouth, accompanied by hand gestures as if desperate to see the light, “It’s just – everything at the moment! Not only have I got to be up all hours to fit in all the van jobs, and the flying when I can, which is barely anything recently, I’m still spending most of my days _trying_ to look after Mum, while she makes it as difficult as is humanly possible. It’s as if she’s so desperate not to be a hindrance that she’s being as much of one as anyone has ever been.”

“You’ve got Arthur to help you now though.” Deborah suggested, pressing her lips together as she watched Martin roll his eyes tiredly and shrug as if nothing could be helped, and he was doomed to live in resignation until the end of eternity.

“No, no, that’s just the start.” Martin exclaimed, really beginning to delve into his frustrations; this was good, he just needed to let it all out, “Now _Simon’s_ turned up, and it’s living hell at Mum’s; I was doing absolutely fine managing on my own, then he just waltzes in and pretends as if he’s some sort of great martyr for taking a few hours away from his job at the council.”

“Do you and Simon not get along?” Deborah inquired; she played with a few loose strands of hair so as not to look too interested, but Martin was too busy venting to pay her curiosity much attention.

“Well, we’re polite when we’re together – but I try to avoid us being together as much as possible.” Martin explained, and Deborah imagined that he was thinking of all the things he’d wanted to do to his brother over the years to get him to shut up; instead, the threads around his knees took the brunt of his irritation, “You know, he really is insufferable, h-he goes out of his way to embarrass and patronise me, a-and Mum just soaks it all up.”

“Can’t you just stand up to him?” Deborah asked, blinking up at him; despite his floundering, she had never thought of Martin as someone that wouldn’t stand up for themselves, however bad at it they may have been.

“I try, but he just sort of steamrollers over me with his voice and his moustache.” Martin pouted; he brought his knees up onto the sofa a little further, so that he could wrap his arms around them and use the motion to bring his forwards a little more, creating the illusion of closeness.

“With his moustache?” Deborah replied, allowing a faint giggle to bubble up in her thought; that was the ticket, she thought, Martin’s frown was erased as the corners of his lips began to rise, and he shrugged carelessly.

“Really hard to argue with someone with a moustache that bushy.” Martin remarked wryly, clicking his tongue and shrugging again; his fingers tapped where they curled around his knees, as if he were growing restless.

“I’ve seen some moustaches in my time.” Deborah suggested nonchalantly; there was something about how happy Martin looked despite his complaints that she wanted to simply package up and keep, and if she could do anything to maintain it, she would, without a second thought, “I reckon I could have a crack at it.”

“I’m sure you could – you or Carolyn, but I’m afraid I’m not you or Carolyn.” Martin retorted, snorting a little as he presumably imagined the scenario, and gestured towards himself, “I’m me.”

“True – but you _know_ me and Carolyn.” Deborah prompted patiently, deliberately holding his eye contact, waiting for him to catch up with her train of thought; if she had expected waves of gratitude, she was sorely disappointed.

“So?” Martin asked, so innocently as his eyes flittered over her face; surely he couldn’t have forgotten that she was always willing to come to his aid without a second thought.

“Well, we’re driving to Stansted on Sunday, aren’t we?” Deborah explained, taking advantage of the opportunity to make it sound as if her plan was one of mystery and wonder; the rapt attention that Martin was giving her was wonderful, and she quirked her eyebrows demonstratively, “Perhaps we ought to call in on the way and wish your mother well – the whole crew. In our uniforms.”

“Oh, _yes_!” Martin exclaimed excitedly, his face lighting up as hi eyes widened, and he leaned forwards to grasp at her arms just above her elbows, grinning so hard that his teeth showed; Deborah had to fight not to blush, as it occurred to her that the last place she had heard that low rumble of joy was in the bedroom, “ _Fantastic_!”

“Anything for you dear.” Deborah remarked, voice perhaps a little too airy, as she was distracted by the tickling in her cheeks; she lifted her hand as if to place it over his, but settled instead for brushing the backs of her knuckles against his, dropping her hand. It wouldn’t do to push her luck.

“Really though, you are _perfect!”_ Martin continued fondly, apparently unaware of the intimacy of their position, his thumbs rubbing small circles into her arms as he grinned excitedly; as much as she loved it, Deborah couldn’t let it go on, not when her heart was doing funny things in her chest and they had no idea what they would do if presented with such an idea.

“Now, now, Martin, there are other people around.” Deborah remarked awkwardly, trying not to grimace as she patted his arm, and leaned back imperceptibly; she regretted it immediately, when Martin cleared his throat nervously and jolted back, covering his mouth with a curled hand, cheeks flaming.

“Yes…sorry.” Martin murmured, pulling his legs down to place his feet firmly on the ground, and then hastily hoisting himself to his feet, shuffling a bit as if unsure of what he should do.

“No matter.” Deborah assured him, smiling pleasantly, placing her hands in her lap, as non-threatening or assuming as she could muster; that seemed to work as Martin nodded, and coughed again, but smiled wanly, before turning stiltedly on his heel, and striding away.

oOoOoOo

Now that she was at the Crieff residence, Deborah felt like she was having her eyes open to why Martin was…well, the way that he was; with his mother and sister fussing over him and telling him what to do, and his brother actually hoisting him off the ground despite his protests, talking over him and disagreeing with his every statement, she could absolutely understand why Martin was so desperate to be respected as Captain.

It even made a fluttering of sympathy, and affection, rustle back into life in her chest, and she found that any annoyance that she had previously had with Martin’s preoccupation with his job and his pride, simply faded away; if Deborah had known, she wouldn’t have been so quick to disregard his pride when they were together, might have even cushioned the blows when they were fighting.

All that she wanted now was to make Martin feel better, assure him that he always had _her_ , that she would supported and respected him at least in front of his family; the only obstacle to that was Carolyn, standing to the side, smirking like a shark smelling blood.

“First officer?” Martin’s sister, Caitlin, as red haired and freckly as he was, asked, looking Deborah up and down as if she couldn’t believe that she was ranked below her brother; oh dear, “Is that like the captain’s captain?”

“Not quite, in fact.” Deborah replied stiltedly, linking her fingers together at her front as she awkwardly swung her arms; she wasn’t going to let Carolyn win this, not even when she was as distracted as she was.

“I’m the captain.” Martin insisted vehemently, pressing a hand to his chest, emphasising his desperation as he glared at his sister; it didn’t help that she was still holding his precious hat between her hands, “You _know_ I’m the captain.”

“Well, yes, but you’re not her captain, surely.” Caitlin contradicted him, snorting as she gestured towards Deborah, oblivious apparently to the inner turmoil that Deborah thought Martin was transmitting quite well.

“Yes, I am! Aren’t I, Deborah? Tell them.” Martin turned to Deborah, eyes wide as he begged, gazing down at her like a parched man straining for water, as if she were the most important person in the world in that moment; she almost spoke up to defend him, when she was cut off before even opening her mouth.

“Oh yes, do.” Carolyn interjected eagerly, grinning from the side-lines; Deborah rolled her eyes, but refused to let herself be caught out, no matter how much Martin’s gaze burnt into her skin.

“Oh yes. He is …” Deborah spoke carefully, wincing as she tried to ignore the nauseas churning in her guts as her she watched from the corner of her eyes, Martin’s face falling, as his features softened into a miserable facsimile of how he should have been looking at her, “… he is my … That is who he is.”

“Oh! And is he good?” Caitlin inquired, sounding surprised, possibly so much so that she didn’t notice the uncomfortable configuration of her words, which was something, Deborah supposed.

“Oh, yes!” Deborah exclaimed, grasping at the slither of a chance to redeem herself, not that it lasted long, or did anything to cheer Martin up; in retrospect, perhaps she shouldn’t have asked Carolyn to come along, “He is most … most … good.”

“Great.” Martin remarked flatly; when Deborah turned to look at him, she felt as if the rejected, terrible expression on his face, the slump of his shoulders, was like a knife to the gut, his dejection a tangible cloud choking her, “Thanks, Deborah. Terrific.”

Deborah tried to tell him via an imploring, miserable stare that she was sorry, to translate her guilt into a physical apology, but he was too busy talking to his family, trying to work out what Carolyn was doing. Then apparently he had had enough, as he ordered Carolyn to the kitchen, and guided Deborah with a firm hand on her back, nudging her purposefully into the other room and away from his relatives.

When the kitchen door slammed behind him, and Deborah and Carolyn were lined up on one side of the room, Martin on the other, he scowled furiously, his lips trembling with the effort of puffing out his chest and glaring indignantly between them.

“You’re still playing the game!” Martin hissed irritably, as if he couldn’t believe his own words; he swallowed hard, waiting for one of them to answer, and Deborah couldn’t ignore the horrible clenching coldness in her guts.

“What?” Carolyn insisted, feigning cluelessness, shaking her head as if affronted by Martin’s suspicion; it wasn’t a very good act, “No! Of course not!”

“You are!” Martin snapped, jaw clenching as his eyes flickered frantically between the two women; she couldn’t decide whether the expression on his face was disappointment or anger, but what Deborah did know, was that his eyes lingered on her most of all, as if her betrayal was the worst.

“What game?” Deborah asked as innocently as she could manage given the guilt that was simmering just beneath the surface of her skin; she folded her arms over her chest, and then regretted the motion, as Martin’s expression became more certain, as if he could read her avoidance.

“Say “sausages” – either of you.” Martin instructed, standing back a fraction so that he could purse his lips and stare at the both of them expectantly; Carolyn remained silent, glancing sideways at Deborah.

“I think not.” Deborah said quietly, after a pause; even though she winced, and grimaced, knowing that it would only annoy Martin further, she couldn’t let Carolyn win; she would never live it down.

“You said you’d help me!” Martin groaned in frustration, jerking forwards with the power of his disappointment, extending his palms into the air as if pleading for some sort of compliance; seeing his eyes water did nothing to aid Deborah’s resolve, “That was the whole point! For once I was gonna look good in front of my brother, and now you’re too busy playing your stupid game!”

“Well, we can do both.” Carolyn remarked, shrugging as if it were no problem whatsoever; it was fair to say that she still wasn’t quite in tune to the subtler quirks of their Captain, not nearly enough to read the trembling of his limbs as more than just a habit.

“No you can’t!” Martin hissed furiously, clenching his hands at his sides, now glaring quite pointedly at Deborah, and only Deborah, “You sound like a couple of broken Speak and Spells.”

“That is a touch harsh.” Deborah interjected, calmly raising her hand to gesture definitively at him; not that it helped, as she had to press her lips together to avoid quailing under the irritable scowl that he aimed at her.

“Stop it!” Martin ordered, barely keeping his voice low enough not to be heard from the other room; his hand was shaking as he held it up, countering Deborah’s gesture, “Okay, look: I’m declaring an amnesty. While you’re in this house, the game’s on hold, okay?”

“Suits me.” Carolyn remarked cheerfully, glancing at Deborah for confirmation.

“And me.” Deborah agreed nodding dutifully; she still felt guilty about lying to Martin, but if Carolyn was going to keep up the game, then she wasn’t going to fall for any of her tricks.

“Good!” Martin sighed, physically sagging in relief; he kept his eyes trained on Deborah, which only serves to force her not to visibly squirm under his scrutiny, “Thank you.”

“Right, then, shall we go back in? Deborah suggested, eager to divert Martin’s attention elsewhere; his family were probably wondering what was wrong, or else, being bedazzled by whatever Arthur was using to entertain them.

“Yes, let’s.” Carolyn announced; she began to step forwards, but Martin threw out an arm, blocking her path as he glared once again between the two of them,

“Wait a minute.” Martin ordered suspiciously, his eyebrows knitting as he narrowed his eyes at the women; he couldn’t just leave it alone, “Say “sausages”.”

“You first.” Carolyn muttered swiftly, nodding towards Deborah, still determined to win the game.

“No, you.” Deborah replied quietly, ducking her head so that she didn’t have to look at the betrayal plastered across Martin’s face; winning was beginning to feel awfully like losing, she thought, as she pulled her arms more tightly around her chest.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes! All together, after three. One, two, three …” Martin instructed, his chest heaving as he became more desperate, lifting his hands into the air either side of him; he drew in an expectant breath, but when neither of them answered, he let out a quiet scream of frustration, and almost turned his back on Carolyn, closing the gap between himself and Deborah to glare down at her, “Seriously! Deborah, you said that you were going to help me, you _said_ that you would be here for me, but never mind –it’s clear now that you don’t care-”

“I-” Deborah tried to protest, her head snapping up to meet his gaze, but Martin shook his head and cut her off, his cheeks burning with exertion; did he really think that that was what was going on?

“No, you don’t care, and don’t try to tell me that you do.” Martin insisted bitterly, his lips trembling as his eyes almost watered; Deborah could only gape helplessly, suffocated by the flood of guilt that flooded her chest, “It’s always the same thing with you; I need you to do this one thing for me, and you’re too busy wrapped up in your stupid games to actually care about how _I_ feel.”

Just like that, Deborah was hit by a moment of complete clarity as she took in how truly miserable Martin looked as he stood over her; it wasn’t quite betrayal, or disappointment that glistened across Martin’s face, it was _hurt_. Martin was actually _hurt_ by the way she was acting; he wasn’t just throwing a fit because of some distorted sense of pride, this was actually _important_.

And had been since the start. Their relationship had fallen apart because Deborah thought that Martin was too wrapped up in his bloody pride to even try and understand how she felt…but here she was, too wrapped up in herself to understand that his pride wasn’t pride, not quite, but that it was actually _important_ , more important than just showing off that he was Captain.

 _Oh_ …they had messed up, so badly.

“No…I- I do care…” Deborah told Martin, softly, though she knew that I such a small room, Carolyn could hear everything that they were saying to each other; she lifted her hand to brush affectionately against his arm, but Martin pulled away.

“Prove it: One … two … three …” he instructed, stepping back to encompass Carolyn in his gaze; she must have found herself plagued by a wash of emotional reprisal as well, as she wasn’t smiling quite as proudly any more.

“Sausages!” Deborah murmured, as Carolyn said it more loudly; her shoulders sagged, and she rolled her eyes at the other woman’s over exaggerated sigh of relief, far more concerned with the fact that Martin, for all he allowed them to go back to speak to his family, the tension didn’t leave his limbs.

Returning to the sitting room, and listening to Simon talk down to Martin and contradict his every decision regarding his own career, Deborah couldn’t stand by any longer; Martin still wasn’t looking at her, but the whirling in her stomach was too much to ignore. She had to make this right.

“So, Simon.” Deborah drawled, stepping up to Martin’s side (Carolyn flanked the other one), smirking salaciously; Martin paid her no notice other than to glance fleetingly down at her when her arm brushed against his, “I didn’t introduce myself properly before. I’m Deborah. I’m Martin’s first officer – his junior – his second in command.”

“Well, pleased to meet you.” Simon replied cheerfully, giving Deborah an appraising look, whilst nodding politely from the armchair beside his mother’s, “I must say, you look more my idea of a pilot than old Martin here.”

“Really?” Deborah feigned surprise, placing a hand lightly over her chest; if there was one thing that she could do without fail, it was doll out the false charm for her own purposes, “You look exactly my idea of a council administrator.”

“Well, senior administrator.” Simon amended, scrunching his face a little with the pride that he possessed; there was really no doubt in Deborah’s mind that he and Martin were related, even if Simon was a good foot taller, and brunet. It was as if righteous indignation were hereditary.

“Oh, really? Senior. Gosh.” Deborah remarked as she would have with Martin, back when they had first met, taking care to exaggerate her movements and peer thoughtfully at the man; beside, Martin huffed quietly, and Deborah had to refrain from elbowing him for misunderstanding her intent.

“The sights you must have seen.” Carolyn added, twigging Deborah’s plan and smiling shark-like across the room at Simon, not even bothering to turn and meet Deborah’s eye to ensure that she was on the right track as she pressed her hands together.

“Yes, well, I …” Simon seemed to choke somewhat, clearing his throat awkwardly at the idea that someone was actually praising his work; it was far, far too easy to read the signs that had been present in Martin from the day that they had met, “I could tell you a few stories.”

“Please, do.” Deborah encouraged him; to her pleasure, an awkward silence followed, in which Simon glanced helplessly to his mother and his sister, before rolling his shoulders back and adopting a nonchalant demeanour.

“Well, you know – mustn’t talk shop, you know.” Simon prevaricated, shrugging and placing his curled hand in front of his mouth; perfect, now all Deborah had to do was get Martin happy, and everything would be fixed.

“Oh, but it would be such a treat for us!” Carolyn exclaimed, blinking hopefully at the man; it was nice to know that the woman had some sense of loyalty, if nothing else, “We’ve been dying to hear more, ever since Martin told us all about you the other day as we flew over Monte Carlo.”

“Was it Monte Carlo, Carolyn?” Deborah inquired, shifting a little closer to Martin so that she could peer around him, but more so that she could take in his expression without having him suspect that she was staring; Martin, for his part, was turning his head between the women either side of him, his mouth opening and closing in stunned silence, “I think it might have been Uganda.”

“Oh, yes, of course, when we took those nice cameramen to film mountain gorillas.” Carolyn agreed, shaking her head and batting her hand through the air as if she were such a silly person, floundering among the many happy memories that they shared.

“Sorry.” Deborah apologised, pursing her lips playfully and looking back to Simon, who was watching the exchange wide eyed between his equally bewildered family, and Arthur, who simply looked confused, “The-the trips rather blur into one after a bit.”

“Well, except for the ones like St Petersburg, where we had a bird strike on take-off and Martin landed us on one engine.” Carolyn reminded her brightly; perfect, that was exactly the sort of thing to raise Martin’s self-esteem, and show off for his family.

“Hmm!” Deborah hummed her assent; as Martin’s head snapped around, and he met her eyes, staring down at her, an unspoken question scrawled across his face, along with something akin to…gratitude, Deborah drawled, “That _was_ a sight to behold.”

“Martin! Did you?!” Wendy gasped, sounding thrilled as she placed both hands over her mouth, gazing up at her son with eyes full of wonder.

“Oh, he was brilliant.” Arthur chipped in, beaming at Martin while the Captain’s cheek filled with even more red, more than must have been healthy; Deborah didn’t think he knew what was going on, precisely, but Arthur was always happy to boost anyone’s ego.

“Well, you know, just part of the job.” Martin stammered, shrugging weakly; he barely took his eyes off of Deborah for half a second, before they were back again, and the pain of before was replaced with something that Deborah couldn’t identify, that she didn’t want to call yearning, so instead called it wonder, and simply cherished the fluttering in her chest.

“Huh! Well, it’s my job too, but I went to pieces.” Deborah remarked, unable to look away from him for more than a cursory glance at Simon to make sure that he was still convinced; just to add to the act, and because she couldn’t deny herself the moment, she shifted a little closer to Martin, and slipped her hands around his arm, in a way that could be construed as congratulatory, or as a display, but was far too intimate when his elbow could brush against her chest, and she had to tilt her head back for Martin to see her smile, “Not like our brave, fearless leader here; there’s a reason Martin’s the Captain after all.”

“She started crying.” Carolyn interjected cheerfully; Deborah thought that Martin was about to start crying, as he blinked down at her, a faint smile forming unbidden on his lips, as his face grew more and more grateful, and his chest almost stilled as he held his breath.

“I’m not ashamed to admit it.” Deborah drawled, still moving her hands ever so slightly up and down his arm, comfortingly, as she should have been doing before everything went wrong; she couldn’t take her eyes from Martin’s blue ones, and felt like she was drowning in how open and beautiful whatever emotion they held was.

“Like a schoolgirl.” Carolyn chirped; she was enjoying this far too much.

“That’ll do.” Deborah said sternly, then continued in the same airy and entranced tone that she had been using before, “But Martin here slapped me across the face, told me not to be a damned fool, and landed the plane single-handed, fighting the crosswind all the way down to the icy runway and saving all our lives.” She gave Martin a little smirk, to which he quirked an eyebrow in confusion, as she continued, “I’ve never thought of myself as much of a damsel, but I’ll admit, Martin damn near swept me off my feet with his heroics.”

“Martin!” Wendy gasped, as Caitlin exclaimed that he was ‘Amazing!’, the both of them gaping, astounded at Martin, who tore his eyes away from Deborah’s to gulp and chuckle weakly as he took in his family’s reactions.

“But I’m sorry – we’re getting sidetracked.” Deborah remarked, leaning back ever so slightly to address Simon, but not removing her hands from where she held Martin, too happy to be allowed to do so, “You were going to tell us your story, Simon.”

“Yeah. Yes.” Simon stammered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, his cheeks as red as Martin’s, “Well, er, I would, but, um, but, you know, b-best not. Official Secrets Act, you know.”

And that was the end of that; if Deborah had to comment on the rest of the visit, she’d have given herself a hearty congratulations for making such a bright and joyous smile appear on Martin’s face, as when she shifted to retract her hands, he tugged back, mouthing ‘ _thank you’,_ staring at her as if she were the most beautiful thing in the world, and she replied by mouthing ‘ _you’re welcome darling’,_ feeling as if she might fall into him if she wasn’t careful.

oOoOoOo

Finally, after another hour at the Crieff residence, listening to Martin regale his family with toned down stories of their more professional flights, and being cornered by Wendy in the kitchen to be told that she didn’t understand why her son had broken up with her, because he had never looked so happy, and that Wendy would have loved to have Deborah as part of the family because she was a ‘dear’, Deborah leaned back against Arthur’s car, watching Martin say goodbye to his mother.

“All okay?” Deborah inquired, as Martin didn’t quite bounce down the path that led to the road; his lips were pursed in the corner of his mouth, as if he were deep in thought, and he came to stand in front of Deborah when she pushed away from the car.

“Er, yes. I-I think so.” Martin replied uncertainly, scratching at the top of his head with the edge of his cap, as he peeked at Deborah just as he always did when he thought that they might be doing something unprofessional, or god forbid, illegal, “You don’t think we were too mean to Simon, do you?”

“Good lord, no!” Deborah laughed, letting a wide smile overtake her face, as she watched Martin sigh in relief; if Martin deserved anything, it was to feel good about himself, that she had realised over the course of the day.

“I don’t think so.” Carolyn interjected, from the other side of the car; she peered over the top of it, face scrunched as she held a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, “Why – do you feel bad?”

“Er, maybe a bit bad, but also, sort of mainly AMAZING!” with that, Martin laughed with delight, and lurched forwards, sweeping Deborah into such an enthusiastic embrace that she barely had time to catch herself with her arms around his shoulders before she was very nearly swept off of her feet and in a small circle, “I’m sorry, I know it’s petty, but it was _AMAZING!”_ Martin chuckled again, wearing the biggest, warmest smile that Deborah had ever seen on his face as he lowered her down, but his arms remained curled tightly around her back, keeping them pressed together as he murmured wonderfully into her ear, “Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Deborah was unsure of how to respond, other than to let out a nervous sort of complimentary giggle as she shifted back just far enough that their foreheads touched; Martin drew his bottom lip through his teeth when their eyes met, and seemed to be lost in confused and boundless thought, though he made no move either way. If she could have described it, Deborah might have said that he looked as if he might simply press his lips to hers and ravish her there and then, such was the intensity with which Martin stared at her.

“Oh, not at all.” Carolyn remarked loudly, now leaning against the top of the car as Arthur watched the exchange in silence, lips pressed together as if afraid that too much noise might shatter something, “I know what it’s like. Well, you’ve met Ruth. She still makes me feel like a five-year-old.”

Martin sighed, and leaned backwards; to Deborah’s surprise, even though his mind seemed made up about making any move towards her, as his eyes flickered away, Martin didn’t remove his hold on her, instead allowing whatever they were doing devolve into a loose hug, where she could stand back with a yard between them, and still rest her arms on his shoulders.

“You know, I think I could handle him if it weren’t for that moustache.” Martin bemoaned, shooting a devious glance back at the house; of course, he couldn’t let anything go for too long.

“I do think you set too much store by moustaches.” Deborah drawled warmly, fondly brushing the back of her hand against Martin’s cheek as she stepped back, reasserting the space between them, and allowing her arms to wrap around her chest; Martin rolled his eyes, but nodded in acceptance.

“Ah-ha!” Carolyn declared, shattering the peace and pointing triumphantly at Deborah over the car, “Moustaches!”

And that was the end of what could have been a peaceful and pleasant day, and the beginning of a flight filled with a very smug CEO, a resigned First Officer, and an unusually pliant Captain, who even listened to the steward’s suggestions on how to entertain the passengers without mentioning once that every single one was unprofessional.


	41. Xinzhou

**Xinzhou**

With nothing but white for miles around, and the wind whistling until it burned their ears, Deborah was willing to declare that China had never seen so much snow in such a concentrated area; then again, when the crew of a small aeroplane were bumbling around on a runway, of course it would feel like that.

As far as she knew, Carolyn and Arthur were waiting by GERTI’s door, but Deborah couldn’t quite see, as even squinting, she found that the chill stung her eyes just enough to make the effort not worth the pain. If only Martin would hurry up, they could get on the plane and leave, and spend the next few hours nice and warm, tucked up in the flight-deck.

“ _Oh_ , Oh No!” from her side, Deborah heard Martin let out a frantic cry, a sort of reedy squawk, and she turned just in time to see Martin, large coat bundled over his uniform jacket, scrambling in the snow, hands outstretched, “ _My hat!”_

Before Martin had time to grab his hat, the wind picked it up and blew it another three or four feet away, into another pile of wet snow; Deborah watched Martin unfold himself from where he had leant down, trying to avoid putting his knees into the snow, and then trip after the accessory.

“You don’t think that that noise was perhaps a little extreme?” Deborah inquired lightly as she hugged her arms around her chest, then rolled her eyes, smirking faintly as Martin audible scowled and grumbled under his breath, almost falling as his hat slipped once more like smoke through his fingers, “Oh, I’m sorry, what was I thinking?”

When no reply was even attempted, Martin far too preoccupied to bother retorting as he gritted his teeth and chased his hat across the snow, looking a little too reminiscent of Bambi for Deborah to bear, she sighed, and wandered around the plane until she found Carolyn and Arthur. Deborah decided not to question the pile of stylised snow standing defiantly next to them.

“Twenty-one minutes to go.” Carolyn announced as she turned at the sound of Deborah’s crunching footsteps, and her eyes fell on her First Officer huddled into herself; she waved her arm through the air, ushering Deborah closer, “Come on, come on, come on! Where is Martin?”

“His hat blew off.” Deborah explained briefly, hurrying to step onto the metal stairs and to get her feet out of the snow; her uniform was in no way designed to protect her from the cold and soggy dampness that was seeping between her toes.

“Blew off? How did it blow off?” Carolyn demanded, turning back to spy Martin stumbling into view, still chasing his hat, which was tumbling in the wind; she let out a huff of despair, “It’s bigger than he is.” Deborah rested her arms on the stair’s railing, and watched him scrabbling, with a find little smile creeping onto her lips, “Martin!”

“Yes! Just-just coming!” Martin yelled, though he was doing nothing of the sort; while Carolyn ordered Arthur about, and gaped at his snowman, Deborah watched Martin flopping about, until his hands finally closed around his hat, which he clutched to his chest, red faced and breathing heavily.

 Deborah smiled warmly at Martin as he trotted over to join their gathering at the bottom of the stairs, but he merely rolled his eyes and grimaced good-naturedly, still clutching his hat as he panted and leaned his weight against the railing.

“Here I am.” Martin declared, as Carolyn halted her conversation with Arthur; Deborah reached over to give his shoulder a little squeeze, providing that slither of attention and acknowledgement that he had very obviously been looking for. Ever since she had realised why Martin was…well, the way that he was, that recognition was actually _important_ to him, that he wasn’t just being a stubborn git, Deborah had been taking pains to be as subtly affectionate as possible.

It seemed to be working a treat, as the tension visibly left Martin’s limbs, and his lips curled into a pleasant smile and his eyes lingered on her face; recently, it didn’t just feel as if things were going back to the way they had been before…it felt as if Martin was letting things fall back into their _proper_ rhythms.

“At last.” Carolyn muttered, then gave Martin a cursory glance, taking in the state of him as he thrust his hat back onto his head, pinning it down with the palm of his hand, “Can’t you get a chin strap for that thing?”

“Don’t give him ideas.” Deborah sighed, taking a second to brush her fingers over the rim of Martin’s cap before retracting her hand; his eyes followed the motion, and she pursed her lips and pouting playfully at the inquisitive, cheeky cock of his eyebrow.

Carolyn didn’t wait for them to exhaust their flirting, or whatever it was that they were doing, and she ignored Arthur’s attempt to return to his snowman, instead striding up the stairs and past Deborah, bumping her with her elbow as she yanked GERTI’s door open, and stepped inside.

“All right. Everyone in.” Carolyn instructed, waving the three of them into the warmth of the Cabin; offering Martin one last glance, Deborah clapped Arthur on the back to stop him from ignoring his mother’s request, and did as she was asked, marching up the stairs, eager to remove herself from the biting chill of the outside.

As much ‘fun’ as it was watching Martin and Arthur clutz around in the snow, in the middle of the evening, in a country far from home, Deborah was ready to start making her way back to her own house, and her own bed. Three coffees and she was practically itching for it actually. And then no clients for at least a week, and nothing to keep her occupied in that time; she might spend the first day lounging, but if she was lucky, Deborah might even be able to convince Martin that he needed an assistant manager on his van job, which was all the way on the other side of England, or so he said.

                                                                   oOoOoOo

It was only because she loved him that Deborah humoured Martin’s request, and let him lead her by the wrist (which he held daintily between his fingers, as if afraid that too much contact between them might shatter the mood) outside, back into the snow, in which she was now shivering, her arms no help as they wrapped tightly around her chest.

There was something about Martin shuffling around, kicking at the snow with the toes of his boots, almost childlike as he pointed down at the ground, red cheeked and bundled lumpily into his coat, that filled her with fondness and made it impossible to be truly annoyed with him.

“See, l-look.” Martin instructed, his finger extended towards the ground as he looked between it and Deborah, unimpressed it seemed by her reluctance to take an adequate interest in the frozen water, “Look at the snow.”

“Yes, it’s absolutely fine.” Deborah replied, her voice pitched at least an octave higher than it should have been, as she huddled into herself, fighting the cold; humour him, she might be willing to do, linger outside while he fussed over nothing, she would not, “Come on!”

“No, I … I-I-I just think it looks a bit slushy.” Martin explained, gesturing decisively with his hands, his teeth chattering against the chill; now he really was just being stubborn for the sake of it. Either that, or the snow had gone to his head and insanity was taking hold, forcing him to see problems where there were none.

“It’s not slushy at all!” Deborah insisted; rolling her eyes, she knelt down and began scooping snow into her glove covered hands, taking a sizeable chunk from the ground, “It’s lovely, dry, fluffy snow.” she said, standing again so that she could mash the mush together more tightly, and hold it out for Martin to look at, shifting closer so that he could peer down, “If it was slushy, I couldn’t make a snowball out of it, and yet, look.”

“Yeah,” Martin acknowledged, nodding indulgently, but dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as Deborah squeezed the snow a little tighter, “but it … it-it’s not a proper snowball. It hasn’t got much structural integrity …”

In the spur of the moment, Deborah decided that the best, and most enjoyable thing to do, would be to curve her arm upwards, and let the snowball arc through the foot of space between them, only to splatter with a thump into the scarf covered area between Martin’s chin and his neck.

Martin let out a small sound of surprise, and squeezed his eyes shut reflexively, but when he opened his eyes, Deborah was smiling wickedly at him, her eyes trained on his face, her hands linked and swinging at her front as she rocked on her heels.

“Seems all right to me.” Deborah remarked airily, as Martin brushed the snow away from his face with the back of his hand, wrinkling his nose at the dampness. She had been right, he really did look lovely all flushed with white flecks in his hair.

“I did know you were going to do that.” Martin replied wryly, attempting to stare seriously down at her, but Deborah could tell that the longer he looked at her smile, the more he was forced to fight his own; wonderful.

“And yet you didn’t duck.” Deborah sighed, placing a dramatic hand against her chest, grinning at the sardonic twist of Martin’s features as he began to bend down, presumably to brush the remainder of the snow from his clothes, “You really do care.”

“Yes,” Martin agreed, chuckling under his breath; a little grin slipped onto his lips as he began gathering his own lump of snow in his hands, glancing upwards to ensure that Deborah was watching his overly demonstrative movements, “but look: if you just scoop it lightly …”

The moment that she saw what he was about to do, Deborah jolted back, her hands rising to hang palm out in the air between them, as Martin froze, snowball still clutched between his fists, still half crouched in the snow.

“Don’t you dare.” Deborah drawled, nevertheless eyeing Martin’s hands warily as he straightened up; a small, daring smirk appeared without her permission, even as she began to inch away, slipping her foot back ready to run, “ _Martin_ , don’t you even think about-”

Before she could finish, Martin’s face was taken over by a devious glint in his eyes and a wicked grin, and he lunged forwards, not quite releasing all of the snow in his hands; Deborah dodged out of his way, but Martin didn’t give up, scooping up more snow and following her movements.

Deborah wasn’t sure how it happened, between the chuckling and the giggling and the flurry of snow and water that flew here there and everywhere, but somehow, she found herself flat on her back in the snow, the icy chill barely noticeable as Martin pinned her down, his legs either side of her thighs as he knelt over her, sprinkling snow onto her face while laughing joyfully, as she sniffled and giggled and batted her hands in the air, both of them beaming.

She whacked her hand gently against his side, but that only caused Martin to drop the snow onto her face, and for him to wobble, falling forwards until he was propped up above her on his wrists; they were effectively pressed together, albeit clumsily, and as Deborah propped herself up on her elbows, bringing their chests closer together, her eyes met Martin’s blue ones, and she felt her smile begin to waver.

Then Martin grinned even wider, and his eyes bored into hers, lingering and burning, but Deborah could see his chest stutter slightly; Deborah rose a little further onto her elbows, and Martin leaned down, and the tip of his nose rubbed affectionately against hers, before he pulled back and stared into her eyes again, the smile never fading from his face. It was like being run over by a bus constructed entirely of flaming moths, and Deborah found herself momentarily breathless, and completely content.

Then in the distance, there sounded the clacking of boots on steel, and Martin sat back on his heels as if scolded, dragging Deborah up with him, enough at least that she could sit up, hands digging into the snow either side of her.

“You see?” Martin asked, swallowing hard as his eyes darted back and forth, wide and horrified, chest heaving; Deborah could just about understand that perhaps, they might have got a little carried away, “It’s still spattering before impact. That’s why it’s not safe …”

“I hate to intrude on your pilot-y winter wonderland, but we have eleven minutes to get this thing in the air.” Carolyn remarked dryly, standing with her hands on her hips as Martin rose to his feet, then offered Deborah a hand to drag her up after him, the both of them brushing the residual snow away from their clothes.

“Carolyn, I think the snow on the wings might be too slushy for take-off.” Martin explained hastily, rubbing at the back of his neck as he shuffled his feet and pulled his coat a little more tightly around himself.

“And I think it’s absolutely fine.” Deborah contradicted, standing at his side, wrapping her arms around her chest and avoiding the suspicious glare that Carolyn was directing at the two of them; what had just happened was awkward, but Martin was apparently as eager to forget about it and just be friends as she was. When he was ready to stop being friends, and fix things, then she would accept.

“And so you’re settling it with a snowball fight.” Carolyn sighed exhaustedly, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“No; slushy snow won’t hold its shape in any great volume, whereas dry snow …” Martin argued weakly, pointing as he had been before at the ground, kicking at the snow as if to prove a point.

“Uh, Martin.” Deborah cleared her throat and extracted one of her arms to poke tentatively at his arm, drawing his attention towards herself as she stepped just a fraction closer.

“What?” Martin replied, his eyebrows rising inquisitively as he turned to her; she might have been deluding herself, but Deborah thought that he was giving her his complete attention.

“Take a look at that.” Deborah instructed him, stepping close enough that she could turn Martin to look towards the plane, keeping one hand on the back of his arm as he peered at the structure, “One of Arthur’s finest snowmen. You can’t make that out of slush.”

“ … Oh.” Martin remarked after a moment of squinting, open mouthed at the snowman, the cogs turning in his head; then his expression brightened, and he turned his head back to Deborah, shrugging carelessly, “Oh – oh well. It must be fine, then.”

Deborah was momentarily surprised at how quickly Martin agreed with her, not even a fight, or an implication of stubbornness; he just, accepted it, as pliant as he was capable of, smiling and nodding, shoving his hands in his pockets. It was nice…

“Yep. So everyone back on. We’re flying tonight!” Deborah announced, plastering on some not entirely false cheer, and striding past Martin and Carolyn so that she could step onto the stairs, where Arthur was now waiting, “Arthur?”

“Yeah?” Arthur replied curiously, stepping aside to let her enter the plane, while Carolyn and Martin’s footsteps clanged up the steps behind her.

“Your snowman saved the day.” She answered, before heading through the cabin.

“Brilliant.”

oOoOoOo

A hotel would have been nicer, but Deborah couldn’t complain too much about having to sleep on GERTI; compared to everything else that was nagging on her mind, the discomfort of having to lie back, cushioned only by the passenger pillows that Martin had so graciously allowed her to take control of, though he remained on the opposite side of the aisle.

She had been having fun actually, trying to think up games and staying awake…but then Martin had asked about Swiss Airways. It had been so long since he had even mentioned other airlines, years in fact, but discovering that Martin was actually considering leaving…it felt like a heavy weight was slowly pushing at her chest, like a compactor crushing her lungs and stealing the breath from beneath her ribs.

Even worse, Martin thought that Deborah didn’t believe that he could get the job; even after everything they had been through, he didn’t think that she had any faith in him. The past few weeks really had been eye openers as to why they had fallen apart; Martin being a stubborn, proud pest was only one issue, Deborah being self-absorbed, and shut off was another. How else could he possibly think that she didn’t believe in him…or that she would maliciously make his shirt smell like bacon.

Deborah didn’t know how to fix that; that would mean changing _her_ , and that wasn’t something that she could do overnight.

It was agonising, knowing that even though she loved him so much, and he obviously still felt something for her, Deborah couldn’t even stop Martin wanting to go and live in another country altogether; in retrospect, in made sense that he loved flying more than he loved her. It wasn’t as if she could offer him anything close to the joy that he got from flying 747s, not when they were only just beginning to truly understand each other.

So Deborah compensated by playing her word game as loudly and frequently as possible, as if it might drag her out of misery and help her forget that she didn’t want Martin to leave, but that she couldn’t say that without making him think that she had no faith in him.

“What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” Deborah declared into the darkness; when nobody acknowledged her statement, she concluded drearily, “Twelve Monkeys.”

“Er, would you really let Herc go to Zurich, Carolyn?” Martin’s voice sounded in the cabin; of course he hadn’t been listening, of course he was still thinking about that other bloody airline. Deborah held her tongue, and stilled as much as she could, hoping that they forgot she was there; surely he would remember that he didn’t want to leave her.

“It’s not a question of letting him.” Carolyn answered evasively, rustling as she shifted, “He’s a grown man.”

“Well, yes, but would he stay if you asked him to?” Martin asked, his uniform scratching audibly as he sat up a little straighter; why was he asking this? Was he building up to ask more pertinent questions? Was he genuinely concerned for Carolyn? Was he hinting, hoping that Deborah was listening?

“… So I have been led to believe.” Carolyn replied slowly, resignedly; of course Herc would stay if Carolyn asked. Deborah may have had her problems with him, but any fool with eyes could see that the man was completely devoted to Carolyn; more devoted than Martin ever had been. If Deborah asked Martin not to leave, he would, just to prove that he could.

“So it is a question of letting him.” Martin muttered drearily; she didn’t want to move to see him, but Deborah was sure that he was inspecting his hands, which would have been pressed together, as he did when there was no need to worry about who was watching him.

“Go to sleep.” Carolyn ordered him quietly, and that was the end of that conversation, and Martin hummed his assent; but now that the subject had been stirred up again, Deborah couldn’t let it go, even as she inwardly cursed herself for being like a dog with a bloody bone.

“What about you, Martin?” Deborah asked, feigning nonchalance; god forbid he think that she was worried, “If Swiss Airways took you, you’d have to live in Zurich too.”

“Oh, I thought I wasn’t going to apply.” Martin replied snippily; he definitely thought that she was only mocking him, Deborah realised, that wasn’t what she was trying to do, not at all, “I thought they were too good for me.”

“Oh, I-I didn’t say that.” Deborah assured him, lifting her voice into a lighter tone, and sitting up, moving until she was sitting cross legged on the edge of her seat, just right for seeing Martin sitting with his back against the opposite window.

“No, you just thought it really loudly.” Martin remarked wryly, dejectedly, as if he were disappointed, or resignedly hurt by whatever he thought that she meant; that wasn’t what she wanted, or felt, that would only push him further away. Damn, she had to be able to save this, to make Martin believe that she still cared.

“But would you move to Switzerland?” Deborah asked faintly, dropping her eyes to her hands; that was honest, with no false voices or intonations. Martin had to know what she was really asking.

“If someone would let me fly airliners, I’d live anywhere they wanted me to and …” Martin answered, flippantly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; in a way, it was, as Martin couldn’t and probably never had understood what she was trying to say, “how far is Zurich from Vaduz?”

Like a train slamming to a halt, the constant buzzing in Deborah’s head was silenced, and a sensation similar to being punched in the gut caught her off guard, making her head snap up, and her mouth fall open. Martin…he wasn’t…

Then again, it was _Martin_. Of course he was.

“Ooh, about fifty miles or so, I think.” Carolyn told him, completely oblivious to the significance of Martin’s request, “Why?”

“Oh, I _see_!” Deborah drawled, her voice high pitched and reedy as she sucked in sharp breaths, her lungs suddenly moving far too quickly; she could already feel her lips trembling, and was glad that nobody could see how wide her eyes were, or that they were already beginning to burn with the temptation to water, “Duxford went well, did it? You never mentioned.”

“What’s Duxford?” Carolyn asked carelessly; oh, to be free and oblivious, Deborah would have sold the world in return for a respite from the stabbing, agonising ache in her chest, her throat, everything.

“Duxford Air Museum is where Martin recently escorted a _charming_ young woman from Liechtenstein.” Deborah explained bitterly, frantically quickly, though perhaps she was the only one that could hear such a pace; it was just about possible to make out Martin, sitting ramrod straight, his eyes wide as he stared at Deborah, “And when I say, “from,” I mean the princess of.”

“What, that snotty woman we flew?” Carolyn inquired, sounding surprised; it occurred to Deborah that this might have been the first time she had heard of the matter. Arthur must have kept his word when he promised that he wouldn’t speak a word of why Deborah was so miserable; at least there was one person that she could rely on.

“Umm, she’s nicer when you get to know her.” Martin murmured weakly; he didn’t sound too sure of himself, but even so, Deborah couldn’t obey the voice screaming in her head for her to shut up and stop before she upset herself further, or found out something that she didn’t want to know.

“ _So_? How did it _go_?” Deborah inquired stiltedly, picking at the fabric around her knees; don’t answer, dear god don’t answer.

“How did what go?” Martin retorted, his tone indecipherable; now was the perfect time to stop, not to push this, not while Carolyn was there, not at all if this could be avoided altogether.

“Duxford! How was it?” Deborah pushed, wincing as she heard how high pitched her voice still was, bordering on hysterical; this was just making things worse, and Martin, private as he was, would rebel against her inquisition with a vengeance.

“It was excellent, as always.” Martin remarked cluelessly; the image of him pottering around the air museum might have made her smile any other day, but now it felt like claws at her guts, as it should have been _her_. She would have gone to Duxford with him if he’d asked; he _should_ have asked, it wasn’t as if it cost anything to get in, so he couldn’t have used money against her.

“Learn anything new?” Deborah inquired sarcastically, fuelled by that little spark of bitter jealousy, that faded almost immediately; she didn’t want to know, she most definitely didn’t want to know.

“Well, no – it’s really aimed at the lay person rather than the professional pilot …” Martin explained, adopting an ever so slightly proud and superior tone; the bloody, bloody museum, of all things.

“I didn’t mean about _aviation!_ ” Deborah snapped irritably, pulling her knees a little closer to her chest as she heard Martin choke at the sound of her voice; god, she could throttle him, or cry, or throw herself at him, she hadn’t decided.

“Deborah!” Martin exclaimed, affronted…or perhaps, hurt…but Deborah didn’t wait to find out.

“Oh, keep your hair on! I’m not asking for the gory details …” Deborah sneered pushing the back of her hand across her face as she sniffled and her chest heaved again; she didn’t know whether she was angry or sad, but she had to know, and desperately didn’t want to, not after they had spent the last few weeks on the precipice of…something… “but did you get on?”

“Yes, we did.” Martin replied defiantly; then as Deborah inhaled sharply, loud enough that he must have heard it, he paused, and continued more carefully, quietly, as if he regretted every word, “She was nice. It was a nice day. It was … nice to be with her. She was … very nice.”

“Ah, love.” Deborah spat wanly, rubbing her hand over her eyes; those words burned her tongue, made her want to scratch out her throat, but not his, even now, “It brings out the poet in us all.”

“I’m not in love!” Martin snapped, raising his voice for the first time; of course he would say that though. Deborah didn’t know whether to believe him or not, even as a treacherous flicker of hope was mercilessly strangled in the pit of her stomach.

“So are you seeing her again?” Carolyn interjected; Deborah startled, inhaling sharply and rubbing hastily at her eyes. She had forgotten that Carolyn was even there; but then again, Carolyn had seen her at worse points in her life.

“Mmmmight be,” Martin replied tentatively, rustling as he shifted, turning away from Deborah so that he could look towards the area that Carolyn’s voice was emanating from, “next week.”

“Ooh! The difficult second date!” Deborah sneered, wishing that she could just shut up, but finding herself incapable of doing so; she was hurting, Martin could be embarrassed, that was only fair.

“Yes, well, third, actually.” Martin replied primly, as if proving a point; she thought that she could hear him sniffle, but wasn’t sure.

“Oh, really?” Deborah inquired, feigning nonchalance, but sounding merely strained and overly interested, like a woman deranged; how could Martin not tell how much this was affecting her? “When was the second?”

“Er, well, you know when we had that day off in Delhi?” Martin asked; Deborah could imagine him twisting his fingers together, clearing his throat awkwardly, “She happened to be in Agra.”

“Really? What for?” Deborah replied swiftly, giving in to the swell of morbid curiosity that clogged up her throat even as she wrapped her arms around her knees, taking no comfort whatsoever.

“… The, um …” Martin cleared his throat awkwardly; it must have been a big thing, as he didn’t seem to be refraining from upsetting her, “… the king of Sweden’s birthday in the grounds of the Taj Mahal, so we went to that.”

“I see.” Deborah exclaimed wanly, nodding even though he couldn’t see it; and that, right there, made the churning in her guts cease, only to be replaced by a stone cold weight that stilled the whirring in her head, leaving only one, solitary conclusion, “You took her to Duxford Air Museum; she took you to a private party at the Taj Mahal.” this woman was just as much better than her that she had been the day that they had met, and Deborah couldn’t blame her; the only thing she had was the ability to tease Martin, to draw out the misery a little longer, and that wasn’t enough, “Where were you going next week?”

“… Croydon Airport Visitors’ Centre.” Martin answered, making it clear from his tone that even he knew that he was punching far above his weight; but apparently far above his weight rather liked him, and that wasn’t going to change no matter how much Deborah sneered at him.

“You spoil that girl.” Deborah remarked drearily, the anger, or angst, beginning to recede, only to be replaced by a dull ache that she had no energy or inclination to fight as the tension eased from her limbs, and she sagged forwards to rest her chin on her arms.

“It was her idea!” Martin insisted, but Deborah wasn’t listening anymore; Martin could be as defensive as he liked, it didn’t matter anymore.

“Well, you must certainly apply to SA, then.” Deborah remarked dryly, keeping her head on her arms, staring at the corner of the next aisle instead of meeting Martin’s gaze; it she concentrated hard enough, her eyes wouldn’t water the way that they were threatening to.

“What?” Martin asked, sounding surprised, and perhaps…disappointed; Deborah didn’t know what he was expecting, but she wasn’t going to fight for him, or demand that he stayed, “Really?”

“Absolutely!” Deborah replied, her voice sharpening as she finished; no, this was a good thing, she was furious, and aching, but dear lord did she still love him, “Major airline recruiting just down the road from your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend …” Martin said through gritted teeth; he could argue all he liked, Deborah had made her mind up.

“Too good a chance to miss.” Deborah explained matter-of-factly, “Even if you don’t get in, the interview will be good practice; and if you do, you might even get to fly with someone who …” she inhaled slowly, steadying herself; there was no point denying that they were both, very much, the problem, “doesn’t pinch your travel iron out of your flight bag to fry himself a bacon butty.”

“I knew it was you!” Martin hissed victoriously; she could imagine him narrowing his eyes at her and scrunching his nose up adorably.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you were going to use it.” Deborah apologised, sighing as she finally released all of the tension that had been stringing her up, “I forgot that we were no longer so close.”

It sounded as if Martin were going to reply, but the only sound that came was the opening and closing of his mouth from across the cabin; thankfully, wonderfully, Carolyn was still there, and for once, she did the right, moral thing.

“You know, Arthur’s been gone a very long time.”

oOoOoOo

It was cold, and dark, and Deborah had forgotten to put her coat on when she had left the Cabin, so was forced to wrapped her uniform jacket around herself as she leaned back against the side of GERTI’s shell; but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

They had fixed Martin’s hat into the snowman, and she had told Martin to go and apply at Swiss Air…all in all, a productive night; while the rest of the crew went back inside to catch up on their sleep, Deborah remained outside, too tired to cry, mind stuttering to a halt as she ran the same few thoughts over and over.

Not so much a moment of clarity as a drudging, dragged out realisation that the world wasn’t how it once had been, and things had to, and would change; not for the better, not for her, but it was happening.

A metallic clanging filled the air, and Deborah glanced over her shoulder in time to see the light from the Cabin cut off, as Martin’s shape moved down the steps and onto the snow, crunching as he tread slowly to her side. Even though he looked her up and down, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth and digging his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, Martin’s eyes didn’t meet hers as Deborah gave him the same once over.

Eventually, Deborah found herself leaning against a plane in the snow, arms folded over her chest as Martin did the same at her side.

“Do you mean it?” Martin asked tentatively, in a semblance of confidence; his voice sounded rough, as if he were choked up, or stressed, “When you said that I should go for the job at Swiss Air – i-it’s just that I thought that maybe, you thought that I couldn’t do it.”

Deborah sighed, and slumped a little more against the side of the plane, wincing as another wave of cold lashed against her; it was easier to stare at the snow than to look at Martin in any case, and she wasn’t ready to ignore him and go inside yet.

“Martin, I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think that you were perfectly capable.” Deborah answered truthfully, if not miserably; it was time to accept that nothing was going to go back to the way that it had been, “So yes, I think that you should go for it, get the job you’ve always wanted, at a fancy airline, and just go and be happy.”

“What about MJN?” Martin asked concernedly, shifting so that Deborah could feel his eyes on her; giving in to the impulse, she turned and ran her eyes over his face, taking in how the wind had already stained them red, and how he seemed so damn nervous that it just wasn’t fair.

“We’ll live.” Deborah told him plainly, bereft of energy or feeling, simply the god’s honest truth; they’d survive, more or less, for a small while, “Anything’s got to be better for you than unpaid labour and a horrible crew.”

“I don’t think you’re horrible.” Martin said quietly; in fairness, it _had_ been a while since he’d last accused them of anything more than petty pranks, so she supposed that Martin had rather settled in.

Still, the sentiment made her heart do meagre flops, do Deborah rolled her eyes dejectedly, and settled back to face the seemingly endless mounds of snow and runway. Martin sighed, but he didn’t turn away from her; after a few moments, he caught her attention as he elbowed her while shirking his coat, making her stumble slightly.

“Here, you must be freezing.” Martin instructed as he held out his coat towards her, giving it a little shake when she turned and looked at it down her nose; it was things like this that made Deborah want to just put her head in her hands and close her eyes.

“No, Martin.” Deborah replied shortly, folding her arms tightly over her chest and pressing back even harder against the side of the plane.

“You’re only wearing your jacket.” Martin reiterated calmly, giving his coat another little shake as he held it out to her.

“I neither need nor _want_ your jacket Martin!” Deborah snapped furiously, cutting herself off and swallowing hard in regret as Martin’s arm trembled ever so slightly; but he didn’t keep trying.

“Deborah-” Martin started, raising his voice a fraction as he shifted closer, forehead crinkling in irritated confusion, but she didn’t allow him to finish; she’d had enough of him today, and it was time to say no, that was enough.

“No, stop, Martin.” Deborah all but shouted, before lowering her voice, despising the emotion that practically welled up in her tone; she raised her hands, palms towards him, and Martin lowered his arm, tucking his coat back over his elbow, “You need to stop doing this, and you need to stop treating me like…”

“Like what?” Martin retorted, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with indignation; he really had no idea, and wasn’t that just so typical, and made it so difficult to be angry, to be anything more than miserable, “I haven’t been anything but good to you recently.”

“Exactly.” Deborah groaned, rolling her eyes but taking a deep breath, steadying herself; she blinked up imploringly at him, as if she could make him understand just through eye contact, “You’ve been acting as if we’re still together, as if-”

“No, I’ve been acting like I _care_ ,” Martin interrupted, catching Deborah off guard with the vehement seriousness of his glare; his jaw was set, and his nerves were replaced by irritation, “because I do care. Just because you don’t-”

“I _care_.” Deborah cut him off furiously, fuelled by a flare of anger that roared in her chest; she stepped forwards to face him head on, “Martin, I _love_ you. I never _stopped_ loving you – that doesn’t just go away!” her voice shattered into a higher tremor, but she reigned it in, and caught herself gesticulating murderously, painfully at him, not quite poking him in the chest, “But _you?_ You’ve been off with some other woman this whole time, and you never told me!”

“Because I didn’t want to upset you!” Martin fought back, puffing out his chest as he glared back down at her; his cheeks flushed even darker, this time not from exertion, as if _she_ were in the wrong, “ _Because_ I still love you.”

“No, you know what upsets me Martin?” Deborah shook her head, and dug her teeth into her bottom lip, breathing heavily to try and calm herself; she couldn’t allow herself to become angry, but she needed to get this out, while they were talking, “The fact that we’ve known each other for five years…we were together for _nine months_ , and you wouldn’t even move across town to live in a flat with me.” Deborah’s voice broke, and she hastily regained her composure, ignoring the pained, stunned expression on Martin’s face, “This _girlfriend_ who y-you’ve known for all of _three weeks_ …you’re willing to move across the continent to be close to her!”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Martin groaned, throwing his hands into the air and rolling his eyes; he stood back, and gnawed on his bottom lip, jaw set as he spoke with a determination usually found behind the control panel, “And I wouldn’t move there _for her_ …I shouldn’t have asked, I r-realise that, but I wouldn’t be moving for _her_.” He insisted, waving his hands in a conciliatory gesture, as if clearing the air between them, “I just thought, that if I-I was going to consider moving away from my family, my home… _you_ …that maybe it might be easier if I had something _nice_ to fall back on.”

“Is that all she is then?” Deborah inquired softly, with a restrained edge; she wrapped her arms around her chest to stop herself from rubbing agitatedly at her eyes, or her mouth, fighting the choking sadness that threatened to well up and flood her senses, “Something _nice?”_

This wasn’t fair. Martin couldn’t just keep hold of her with one hand while rummaging elsewhere with the other. It wasn’t fair.

“Yes – b-because in the midst of all our fighting, and everything else…it’s nice to have someone who likes me, who enjoys my company, who’s _nice_ , but that’s all it is,” Martin explained, his voice wavering as  he trembled slightly, maintaining a calm and partially measured tone; every word that he said was true, but they also stung, “I-I’m not picking her over you, I’m not in love with her, she’s not _better_ than you, I don’t-”

“Oh, come on Martin!” Deborah scoffed, rolled her head back and pursing her lips in defiance; his eyebrows leapt to his hairline, but he was listening, “A princess who’s nicer and prettier and richer than me who you take to all your _favourite_ places that you never took _me_ …don’t you dare say that your new girlfriend is just something nice on the side!”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Martin hissed; his eyes flicked to the side as if he were listening out for signs that Carolyn or Arthur might come out in search of them, but nothing came. He could argue all he liked, but Deborah was too far gone to let him get away without getting to the crux of the matter, finally reaching an understanding.

“So what?” Deborah asked pointedly, quirking her eyebrows and freezing where she had before been rocking unconsciously on her heels, as if unsure of whether to get closer of further away; a challenge, the last defence, “If I said ‘let’s get back together Martin’, you’d drop her would you?”

“Yes!” Martin exclaimed, and then when Deborah’s eyebrows rose even further, he close his eyes fleetingly and shook his head, correcting himself apologetically, “I mean - not ‘drop’, I’d be nice about it, l-let her down easily, but _yes_!” he reached out as if to place his hand on Deborah’s arm, but she pulled away before he had the chance, leaving him with only a pitiful frown on his face, “I wanted you back the moment I broke up with you, but then you said no, and we fought, and things were hard for weeks.”

“You didn’t honestly expect me to just come and ask for you back?” Deborah asked derisively, shaking her head, and to her dismay, letting a twisted smirk curl the corners of her lips, like the hysterical response to a gruesome crime.

“I might have…a-a bit.” Martin admitted, letting his arms fall to his sides as he shuffled his feet awkwardly; his eyes flickered away, but he kept trying to hold Deborah’s gaze, as if imploring her to see how cute he was being. It wasn’t working…not quite.

“Martin, the last time I tried to make the first move, we split up.” Deborah remarked wryly, scoffing lightly, just a sharp exhale as she turned away and stepped back to once more lean against the plane; Martin followed suit, but remained facing her, “How am I supposed to ask for you back without thinking that I’ve overstepped one of your lines, or that you don’t realise you’re being overly romantic, or touchy…”

“Right, okay…I get it.” Martin interjected, his exhaustion finally showing as he sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face; the ridiculous amount of time it took for his delayed blinks to take place made Deborah wonder whether she should just leave him be, let him go and sleep.

But no – that was the girlfriend Deborah talking; now she needed to make Martin understand, get it off of her chest…it wasn’t her responsibility any more, even if she felt like it was.

“Do you?” Deborah asked, letting a small, sardonic little smile flitter across her lips as she lifted her eyes to meet Martin’s, “Do you really _get_ why I’m upset? Why it hurts to know that while we’ve been getting _friendly_ again, you’ve been off with some secret girlfriend doing god knows what-”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Martin snapped, gritting his teeth; that alone made Deborah’s calm evaporate, and she was caught again by a gust of fury, though she reigned it in, tried to remain collected.

“She’s still another woman!” Deborah hissed, leaning in just as he did, before remembering, and pulling back; her guts twisted painfully, and her eyes burned as they prickled, “Do you know how many times I’ve had a man stand in front of me and say that he still loves me, even when he’s been doing another woman behind my back? You’re not supposed to be like that-”

“I’m _not_ like that!” Martin growled, lowering his voice just as she did, reacting to her caution; he began to clench his hands at his sides, and the coat slipped from his elbow onto the ground, but he ignored it, “I haven’t been _doing_  her – I-I-I’ve seen her three times, the first time you were there – they’re barely even dates, and we’ve only spoken over the phone to say ‘well, I’m in Europe’ ‘Oh, really, well I’m in England soon’.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Deborah remarked bitterly, glaring at him watt for watt; as if playing down whatever he had with Theresa would make everything alright.

“Ye-maybe…she’s kissed me _once,_ alright?” Martin defended himself, puffing out indignantly; how he could still be so damn proud was beyond her, as she watched his hand clench into a pointed motion, as he tried to explain away his behaviour, “And no matter where I’ve been with her, or what we’ve been doing, all I can think about is how much you’d love it, or how you’d know what to say to those bloody posh ambassadors, or how much I wish it were you.” Deborah didn’t want to acknowledge the fluttering in her chest, but she couldn’t speak either, which must have spurred him on, “I don’t _feel_ like I’m seeing another woman…I feel like I’m trying to snatch a f-few hours of happiness with a nice person, a-a-and even then, it doesn’t work because she’s not _you.”_

“And if I weren’t around you all the time, if you really _tried_ …you might end up moving the relationship forwards?” Deborah asked, carefully, as if she were treading on eggshells, not too concerned, but in no way detached; it wouldn’t hurt so much if she were detached. The hope wouldn’t hurt so much, like a sweet poison.

“Maybe…” Martin shrugged sadly, his eyes narrowing faintly as if this were the first time that he had considered it; Deborah highly doubted that, but he wasn’t being malicious, and she couldn’t stay mad at him, not really, only sad and indignant, “but you _are_ around, and you _are_ on my mind, and god dammit Deborah, you were here first and you’ve taken all the most important bits of me…hell, I-I could date Theresa, maybe even love her, b-but that important love, that huge, big one, th-that’s yours, and I’d pick you in a second.”

“But you didn’t pick me did you.” Deborah reminded him, lightly, like one might with a child save for the tremor in her tone, and the way that she drew her arms all the more tightly around her chest as her vision grew a little cloudy, “You hurt me. You asked someone else on a date right in front of me, when you _knew_ that everything between us was still raw. And you’ve been seeing somebody else in secret, all the while getting cosy with _me_ , leading me on only to remember ‘oops – I’m seeing someone else’.”

“I’m sorry.” Was all that Martin could say, as he gazed helplessly down at her; if she wasn’t mistaken, he was blinking a little too hard, but she didn’t allow herself to linger on that thought. If anything, Martin’s misery reignited some of her bitterness; he didn’t _get_ to be sad about this.

“Oh, you’re sorry.” Deborah scoffed rolling her eyes and tipping her head back to rest against the plane.

“I _am…”_ Martin began, but Deborah turned her head back to face him, scowling stubbornly as she wetted her lips and tried to take control again.

“Well _I’m_ sorry if I don’t believe you…” Deborah retorted harshly, then regretted it the next moment, as her heart fell through her ribs, and Martin’s face fell; the slim confidence that he might have been feeling faded, and for a moment, he was visibly overcome with misery, as his eyes turned wet, and he swallowed hard.

But he didn’t reply, as if he had finally realised that there was nothing to say; they had been here before, and now, with time to think, there were no rash actions to be taken. Sniffling slightly, Martin shifted so that he could once again lean his back against the side of the plane, making sure not to brush Deborah’s arm with his own. Deborah watched him, sadly, wanting to comfort him, but knowing that it would feel like bile to her tongue if she did, so simply turned back to watch a new layer of snow fall, and to wait for one of them to break the silence…or freeze to death. She was sure that one of those options was less painful.

“If…” Martin’s voice broke off, and Deborah was reminded somewhat of a baby bird, poking it’s head from within an egg; she would have enjoyed the sight of him looking so cautiously hopeful, rubbing his hands together, if she hadn’t known before he spoke that she was going to crush the very spark, “if I called things off with Theresa, i-if…if we waited, a-and smoothed things out…”

“Would I take you back?” Deborah finished for him, offering a small, sad little smile as she shifted and turned to look him in the eye, pushing her hair behind her ears; Martin’s eyes widened in suspense, and he looked so damn hopeful, that she could only answer him as kindly as she could, “No.”

“Why not?” Martin squawked, throwing a hand into the air in his desperation; he looked so confused, his eyes tracking back and forth over Deborah’s unthreatening, almost affectionate expression, “Look, we’re talking now, we’re having a mature conversation without shouting – we could work out what was wrong with us and-”

“I already know what’s wrong with us Martin, and it can’t be fixed.” Deborah sighed, making sure not to break eye contact, no matter how much the pained glint in his eyes made her want to simply fall forwards into his arms and just pretend that nothing was wrong.

“What do you mean?” Martin asked, bringing his hands out in front of him as one might if catching a ball; Deborah knew that it was what he did when scheming, a jerky movement of his hands that came with deep thought. It wouldn’t be enough.

“For starters…you:” Deborah explained as she squared her shoulders, taking comfort from the solidity of GERTI against her arm; this needed saying, because if it didn’t get said, then they would never even be able to be friends, never really knowing exactly where they stood, “you’re so obsessed with your career, with your pride, with being better, that you don’t entirely trust me, and that you’re willing to bite back, and risk our relationship for the sake of being ‘good enough’”

“That’s not-” Martin retorted almost immediately, his whole face scrunched in defiance as he shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip; ‘not true’ Deborah’s mind added in, but she didn’t allow him to say it out loud.

“I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing Martin…” Deborah assured him, and just like that, Martin’s shoulders sagged, and the confusion was back, and a certain tentativeness as she cocked his head to the side, finally listening; probably because he knew that he wasn’t being criticised, Deborah realised, so quickly moved on, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, readying herself for what might have been the most honest thing she had ever told him, or any of her partners for that matter, “The second problem is me. I’m too wrapped up in myself, in being happy, both of us…I don’t really like to talk about my feelings, or show them much, which made it difficult to even consider what you might be feeling…”

“Deborah…” Martin sighed, rolling his eyes, tone steeped in resignation; he almost stepped forwards as if to pull her into an embrace, or swing an arm around her shoulder, but one sharp look stopped him in his tracks, and he fell back, grimacing apologetically.

“Listen.” Deborah instructed, raising her hands into the air between them, only lowering them when she was sure that Martin was doing as he was told; it was strange, but somehow, even though everything was all wrong, getting to say this, getting to finally put them on even ground, it felt like breathing properly for the first time, like a heavy weight being lifted from her chest, “I understand yours, I really do, i-it hit me, a while back. You can’t help being that way, because your pride isn’t just stubbornness. I understand Martin, I understand that it’s important to you…and I respect that, and I rather love that actually… and me..”

“You’ve been getting better.” Martin interjected sadly; he shoved his hands in his pockets, and ducked his head until he could have been staring at the toes of his boots, but there was no denying the verity of his tone.

“What?” Deborah asked, narrowing her eyes at him in bewilderment.

“I noticed, I-I just didn’t know what you were doing.” Martin explained, as if reluctant to admit that he had been watching, shy and bashful as he kicked at the snow, and struggled to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds, “You’re not closing off so much anymore, not since that trip to Vaduz at least. Y-you’ve been – you’ve been listening to me, and actually getting what I’ve been saying, and-”

“I’ve been trying, because I thought that maybe we had a chance to fix things.” Deborah admitted, feeling nothing but a sardonic, twisted little voice mocking her in the back of her mind, telling her that she still could; she ignored it.

“We still could.” Martin said decidedly, apparently seizing some inner strength as he set his shoulders and brought his eyes back to meet hers, his whole posture the epitome of determination.

“No.” Deborah repeated her earlier declaration, blinking sadly, regretfully back at him, never waver; oh, but what she would give if they could, “Because we’re still us. We… _we_ fight, and we bicker, and we argue, and that might be good for friends, but as partners we reach the point where it _hurts_ Martin. That’s never going to change because we’re still us.”

“We were good together.” Martin remarked pitifully, pouting as watched Deborah smile sadly, in acceptance of a decision that she had already made; he allowed her to step forwards, and hook her little fingers through his, bringing their hands together.

“And not so much apart.” Deborah countered his argument, sighing and looking away as another wave of disillusion barrelled unbidden through her chest, “Martin, in the five years we’ve known each other, we’ve done the same thing over and over again. We’re good for a while, then we argue, then we’re bad for a bit, but eventually we’re the best of friends…it’s a vicious cycle, and I won’t get back together with you only to have to wait for the next time that we ruin everything-”

“We’re not like that-” Martin insisted, tugging his hands from hers, and pursing his lips stubbornly; he wouldn’t be Martin if he gave in easily.

“Yes, we are.” Deborah argued wanly, rubbing the heel of her hand over eyes, and even letting out a shaky, hysterical laugh, “This whole thing with Theresa, with me teasing you even though I wanted to do the opposite, and you hurting me on purpose-”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I just – I didn’t think she’d say yes,” Martin snapped desperately; the worst thing was, Deborah absolutely believed him when he said that, “and –a-and even though I was a bit impressed by her, I-I just, you’d been teasing me all day about exes and relationships, I just stopped thinking, and my brain went ‘I’ll show her’, and then-”

“And your brain will always do that.” Deborah cut him off sternly, speaking loudly and clearly, thought gently, giving him no chance to argue or contradict her; it was time to stop, and accept that some things just remained broken, “Just as mine will always wind you up on purpose.”

For a moment Martin stared at her, his mouth hanging open as he gaped at Deborah, hands outstretched as if to take hers again, lips trembling as his eyes watered imperceptibly; then miraculously, terribly, Deborah watched the shutters fall in his eyes as he finally realised the truth in what he was saying. If she could have risked hugging him, she would have, as she knew all too well what it felt like, that moment of clarity when suddenly everything that had been sugar coated becomes all too real.

“So that’s it then.” Martin remarked, barely moving, stunned into stillness; it wasn’t a question, but he was clinging to hope, Deborah knew, “We’re not getting back together.”

“We’ll end up fighting, and I’m sick of it Martin.” Deborah sighed, a shuddering breath that seemed to drag her down; it felt like a knife to the chest, but she had to say it, even as Martin’s head moved infinitesimally from side to side, “You go, and you get your dream job, and you try your damned hardest t-to…to fall in love with Theresa…and you go and be happy. I will support you all the way.”

Deborah meant it; she loved Martin enough that she would give anything for him to just go and be happy and stop being there with all the pain that was sure to stay with her.

“But I love you.” Martin said, redundantly, as the light was already leaving his eyes, and he was already sagging where he stood.

“I love you too,” Deborah replied, hit by a sudden gust that made tears well up in her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to force them back; she gestured weakly between the two of them, “but _we_ … _us_ …it doesn’t function.”

It was true, at least that was the realisation that Deborah had come to; she couldn’t allow the both of them to stay in such a relationship. Friends could survive that kind of torment…lovers could not.

Slowly, but surely, Martin nodded. He didn’t speak, but he nodded, and held Deborah’s gaze; then his eyes broke away, and he nodded a little harder, sucking in a sharp breath and rubbing his hands over his face. Deborah understood that that was acceptance. She didn’t say a word as she settled back against the freezing plane, nor when Martin moved to lean beside her, still running his hands over his face, through his hair, the both of the staring at the snow as it gathered around them

A little while later, when his jacket rustled, Deborah turned her head a fraction to watch Martin bed down and pluck his coat from the ground; a moment later, the coat was placed gently into her arms, and Martin was telling her not to stay outside too long, lest she get ill. Then he was gone, back up the steps and into the plane.

A short while after that, Deborah closed GERTI’s door behind her, and tread lightly under the cover of two sets of snores back to her pile of pillows, curling up on the flattened seat, and hugging Martin’s coat around herself, burying her face in the collar as she inhaled deeply, praying that whoever was awake couldn’t hear her sniffling.

If nothing else, she could always pass silent tears off as the early stages of hypothermia.


	42. Interlude 17

**Interlude 17**

“But Deborah, you don’t understand, what if something goes wrong?” Martin exclaimed shrilly, his fingers gripping the sides of the flight manual as if it held the secrets of the universe, wide eyed, gnawing on his bottom lip, attempting to extend his arms and thrust the book into Deborah’s hands.

Deborah rolled her eyes and exhaled slowly, but kept her palms pressed flatly against the outer side of the manual, holding it in place between them; the two of them were sitting cross legged on the porta-cabin’s sofa, facing each other on either end. Swiss Air demanded that before interviews were offered, potential employees needed to hand in first a CV, then go to London and sit a theoretical and practical examination.

Helping Martin prepare for said examination was proving more difficult than Deborah had planned, but she was determined to help him in any way she could; the fact that it meant she was able to spend more time than she had in ages in Martin’s neurotic company was simply a side effect, Deborah was only trying to ensure that he had the best rest of his life as was possible.

“Martin, what could possibly go wrong?” Deborah retorted wryly, making sure to hold his gaze so that she could transmit as many positive, and instructive thoughts as she could; nothing that might make his nerves crumble again, not after the last bout of pacing that had taken two coffees to put an end to, “You know the manuals cover to cover.”

“B-but what if my mind goes blank, o-or I forget everything I’ve ever learnt?” Martin fretted, still trying to push the manual into Deborah’s hands; sighing in resignation, she accepted his offering, and let the book fall into her lap as Martin continued, “They might have been fooled by the clever things you did to my CV, but they’ll never even look at me if I fail the entrance exam.”

“I _promise_ , hand on my heart, that you will not fail the written half of this test, Martin.” Deborah assured him, resisting the urge to take his hands in hers and squeeze tightly, more as a disciplinary measure than an affectionate one, “Remember all those tries you had to take to get your license in the first place? It was the practical part that you messed up.”

“Yes, but-” Martin began to argue, as stubborn as ever, but Deborah raised a hand, and he clamped his mouth shut; she took a moment to smiled appreciatively, pleased that in the last few weeks, Martin had been going out of his way not to simply barrel over her. She took a moment to run her eyes over his face, pretending to make sure that he was listening, but really just admiring the nice line of his cheeks, the freckles, the charming flush, as much as she could before eventually, she would have to accept that they were gone.

That was allowed; Deborah was helping him get his dream job after all.

“I know that, but what if this time it’s the exam paper that lets me down?” Martin groaned weakly, running his hand over the back of his neck, agitatedly reaching out to take back the manual, but giving up when Deborah immediately batted his hands away; it was so bloody typical of him to be having doubts _now_ , when he had booked his exam for four days from now.

“It won’t let you down Martin. I know you; you’re worried now, but when you get there, you’ll breeze through the paper, because you honestly believe that you’re the ultimate authority on aeroplane procedure.” Deborah drawled, taking a certain degree of pleasure from the way that Martin rolled his eyes and nodded bashfully, the corners of his lips curling into a smile as he blushed; that was all he needed, a little confidence boost that she could never have given him if she hadn’t been practicing being more honest, “Here, try this: what does it say on page two hundred and twelve of the manual?”

Martin needed no more prompting before he dove into a long winded and embellished explanation of everything that Deborah was sure was on the page that she had asked for, but wasn’t willing to check; instead, she watched him puff out his chest a little as he spoke with wide and arcing hand movements, running through detail after detail. He would fine, she was sure.

“See, there’s nothing wrong with your memory.” Deborah remarked when Martin finally ran out of breath, earning herself a brief nudge, but an otherwise pleasantly accepting grimace, “A far better use of our time would be to go up to the flight-deck, and for me to throw commands at you so that we can see how you would react in the test conditions.”

“Badly, that’s how I’m going to react.” Martin muttered, shaking his head and inhaling a shuddering breath; it really was ridiculous considering how ready he always was to take control whether his performance that day had been good or bad.

“No, Martin, not badly, because you are perfectly competent in the flight-deck. Not perfect, but good enough that I trust you not to kill us.” Deborah explained in slow, elongated syllables; she ignored the stunned joy that sprang onto his face, and leaned forwards slightly to impress upon him her point, “What we need to knock out of you are the little habits that are fine when actually flying, but will do you no favours in an exam.”

“What habits?” Martin demanded warily, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, “What have you been letting me do wrong all these years?”

“Nothing _wrong_.” Deborah retorted, raising her hands in surrender; Martin was definitely on a fine trigger at the moment, and would be until he stepped out of the exam room, “Just things like…the way that you alter our speed - Don’t interrupt!” Martin pursed his lips and grimaced as Deborah glared at him, “It’s not _wrong_ , and it gets the job done, but there are perhaps more efficient, and regimented ways of doing it. You know, things that tick all of the CAA’s boxes.”

“But I was ticking all the regimented boxes when I got to MJN.” Martin insisted, sounding bewildered by the idea that he wasn’t behaving according to the strict guidelines set by the powers that be.

“Yes, but as you’ve improved as a pilot, you’ve let go of some of the stiff actions that were holding you back.” Deborah agreed, nodding and pushing the manual from her lap and onto the sofa between them, “We just need to make sure that you pick them up in time for your test this weekend.”

“Right, right, I can do that,” Martin spoke almost to himself, eyes focused on something that couldn’t be seen as he pushed himself to his feet, and began to pace, before stopping himself, and turning back to Deborah, “Right –well, come on, I thought we were going to the flight-deck.”

oOoOoOo

Unsurprisingly, once Martin was in London with Deborah and Arthur there to see him into the exam room, he was brimming with a jittery balance of confidence and anxiety, bright eyed and grinning like a man possessed, jabbering on and on about how he was absolutely fine, but he was going to mess it up again, but he was completely and utterly prepared.

Deborah decided after the fourth time to accept his first answer, and assume that he was going to be perfectly fine when he was sat down; the magnitude of that realisation had struck like a glittering fist to the gut, as it occurred to her just how far they had come in five years together.

Five whole years, and the prissy, petulant reed of a man that she could barely look at for fear of being repulsed by his sneering and fussing, who snapped at her every move and avoided her kind words like an offering of the plague, was now standing before her, a solid figure, bold and blushing enough that she could barely take her eyes off him for fear of missing that warm fondness that the sight of him sent fluttering through her chest, and was gazing down at her with a trusting smile and indulgent eyes filled with gratitude for her support.

And Deborah had absolute faith in him; Martin was still likely to embarrass himself before he had even made it through the front door, but in the exam, the only thing that really mattered, he was going to succeed and grasp his future by the horns.

So long as he didn’t get too smug and start arguing with the invigilator; that was still a possibility.

“I’m going to be fine.” Martin said for the umpteenth time, once again adjusting the front of his jacket to the point that he might as well have just pulled it from his laundry basket; he looked between Deborah and Arthur, “ _Am_ I going to be fine?”

“Of course you are Skip.” Arthur chimed helpfully; he was standing off to the side, apparently feeling that while Deborah was barely a foot away from Martin, there was no need for him to encroach upon their space, so instead stood swinging on his heels with his hands in his pockets, “You’re one of the best pilots I know.”

“That’s not as comforting as you might think.” Martin replied under his breath, then a little louder, forcing a smile as he looked directly at Arthur, “Thank you…oh god, what if the lifts on the way up make me dizzy and I black out.”

“Martin, if blacking out in lifts were something that actually happened to you, I would make a point of booking rooms right at the top of hotels.” Deborah remarked wryly, waiting for him to nod and roll his eyes, playing along, before she continued; to resist the temptation to touch him, she wrapped her arms surreptitiously around her chest, “You’ll be alright, I promise.”

“Okay…” Martin finally, finally seemed to calm, and the jitters faded slowly from the set of his shoulders; he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, and lifted both of his arms just a fraction, asking sheepishly, “Hug?”

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Deborah replied warmly, and she opened her arms to accept him; there was nothing to feel guilty about, Martin just needed to support, that was all, or at least that was what she told herself.

It wasn’t even one of those intimate hugs, where they wrapped themselves around each other and held on for dear life, though it was just as nice after such a long time physically apart from each other; Deborah’s arms rested around Martin’s shoulders, hands curled closed as they bumped together, and Martin’s arms curled around her waist, bringing them together, but not stroking or fondling in any way, his hands small fists that came together around her back.

A chaste hug then, where they could rest their heads on each other’s shoulders and take whatever small comfort that they needed from their friend; if it lasted a few minutes longer than was polite, then Arthur said nothing, and if Deborah closed her eyes and pressed her cheeks against Martin’s, feeling him sigh and do the same, then that was just the excess of emotions needing an outlet. Martin was, of course, about to potentially take the first step to a life far away…a little indulgence couldn’t hurt.

Except it did, and Deborah simply had to smile through the pang in her chest as Martin hurried into the test centre, waving dejectedly until Arthur remarked that maybe they should go and get coffee while they waited for Martin to come out.

Deborah allowed Arthur to decide which coffee shop they were going to enter, regretting her preoccupation with the gnawing trepidation that thinking of Martin incited in her throat when the steward led her, predictably, into the strangest café she had ever seen; it was like the owners had plucked it from an old sitcom, and dropped it in a fairy story.

oOoOoOo

After about an hour in the coffee shop, and an hour of listening to Arthur talk about whatever it was that had drifted through his mind at any given moment, Deborah was almost relieved when the conversation ground to a halt, and she was able to sit back in her chair opposite his, and watch the dregs of her drink swirl around the bottom of her cup.

Almost relieved; the patchy quiet allowed for a trickle of something to worry her chest and make her stomach turn, as Deborah was able to think about what would happen if Martin actually did do well today. Even though she supported his every step, a small, rather prominent part of her hoped that he would fail.

“Are you really going to let Skip leave?” Arthur asked abruptly; Deborah looked up slowly from her cup, while he carried on, his arms resting on the table as he tentatively met her eyes, “I mean, I know you’ve been helping him get ready, which is really nice, but…you also look a bit teary, a lot of the time.”

“I’m not…” Deborah was about to insist that she was in no way teary, her back stiffening defensively; but then she realised the pointlessness of trying to lie to Arthur of all people, and sighed, slumping once again, “Of course I’m going to let him leave; in fact, I’m actively encouraging it.”

“I thought you loved him though.” Arthur remarked, his eyebrows furrowing in muted confusion; he had a strange way of being able to hold someone’s attention without feeling the need to look away or be even slightly affected by the discomfort of his conversational partner.

“I do, and that’s why I’m going to ensure he ganders on to greener pastures.” Deborah explained drearily, attempting to add a little bounce to her tone, but failing miserably; she shrugged flippantly as she explained, gripping her cup in her palms, “Martin’s always wanted to be a paid and respected pilot, flying big planes for a professional company; I’m not going to hold him back now that he has the chance.”

“I suppose…” Arthur replied, the corner of his lips twisting as if in thought; knowing that this was probably the start of a long and uncomfortable conversation that she didn’t have the energy to extract herself from, Deborah tried to settle more comfortably in her chair, and blinked patiently at the man from across the table, “I guess I just never imagined you two being apart.”

“We were apart for a very long time before we were ever together Arthur.” Deborah remarked dryly, decisively placing her cup down on the table between them and leaning back enough that she could wrap her arms around her chest; it didn’t feel like what she was saying was true, but she didn’t want to discuss this with anyone.

“Well, yeah, but not really; you were always the best of friends, even when you were arguing a lot and Mum threatened to lock you in the flight-deck.” Arthur  protested brightly, along with all of his usual bobbing motions and whirling hands; it wasn’t clear whether this was comforting or not, “It’s weird to think that you and Skip’ll be on other sides of Europe.”

“Believe me Arthur, the thought had occurred.” Deborah muttered, pointedly glaring at the table top; not that that stopped him in any way. No, Arthur was like a train when he got started; damn near impossible to stop from the outside.

“Not in a bad way, I just mean that most people don’t even call you Martin and Deborah any more, it’s just ‘those two’ – like Mum and Herc and all the grounds people always ask me about ‘those two’, or ‘what are those two up to’.” Arthur explained, oblivious to Deborah’s quirked eyebrows and helpless expression as he bowled ahead, “If Martin’s in Switzerland, then they won’t be able to do that anymore.”

It had already taken a lot of thinking and steeling herself for Deborah to be able to accept that she no longer had any claim to Martin, and that she had to accept that he might soon be an absence rather than a presence (and to quash the flickers of hope that noted that Martin might fail and stay with her forever); the last thing that she needed was for Arthur to kind heartedly plant any more seeds of doubt in her mind.

“Yes, well, Arthur, a wise man once told me in not so many words that if you love someone, you should put their happiness first and let them go.” Deborah remarked wanly, offering him a fleeting facsimile of a smirk that faded before it had even fully formed.

“Wow, that sounds like something I once said,” Arthur exclaimed, his eyes going wide with pride; he rolled his shoulders back as he spoke, basking in the few moments of glory, “but with posher wording.”

“Funnily enough.” Deborah retorted, sighing through her nose; perhaps it would have been more sensible to let Arthur go his own way and then meet him outside of the test centre, then at least she could have window shopped through her misery instead of enduring this.

“It’s just that you’re really good together, like, Martin’s calmer when he’s around you, and you, you’re more…relaxed, and not as snippy.” Arthur informed her pleasantly, taking a sip from his hot chocolate, and giving Deborah the opportunity she needed to cut him off and put an end to it. Much longer and her patience would have snapped regardless.

“That’s enough Arthur.” Deborah instructed softly, gritting her teeth as she tried not to scowl at the other customers as they walked back and forth past their table; the image of storm clouds emerging over someone’s head had never felt like such a realistic happening.

“Oh, sorry.” Arthur must have caught on, or else Deborah’s mood really was contagious, as he leaned in slightly, blinking apologetically at her, as if finally he was beginning to understand that his musings weren’t welcome; not that that had ever prevented his helpfulness before, “You know, if you are upset, I’m always here…”

“Thank you Arthur.” Deborah replied stiltedly; that seemed to be enough for him, as he nodded and focused his attention back on his drink, which he had managed to make last throughout their entire stay.

Immediately Deborah found herself regretting being so short with him; it had been a while since she had had a decent conversation with Arthur, so wrapped up as she had been in her own problems, and in moping over Martin. She had almost forgotten that there were other people in her life; or that they might have lives of their own that didn’t revolve around her.

“So, have you thought about what you’d like to do if MJN ends?” Deborah inquired, adopting a jaunty tone and leaning forwards, propping her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands; not a subject that she wanted to explore, but one that couldn’t be ignored.

“Well, a bit.” Arthur shrugged thoughtfully, and pursed his lips as his eyes wandered upwards; Deborah’s eyebrows rose in surprise, not expecting a positive response, “But Mum says that even if Skip goes, we’ll be able to keep GERTI running for a few months at least.”

Small mercies only went so far, Deborah mused dejectedly; if Martin left, MN would become a sinking ship, with each of them stagnating until it was completely submerged.

“And after that?” Deborah pushed, genuinely curious to know; she had never even tried to imagine Arthur in a life that didn’t involve GERTI, but now that she did, it was apparent that she had been appallingly blind, “You must have some idea; I mean, you didn’t grow up wanting to spend the rest of your life working on your mother’s plane.”

“No, because it wasn’t Mum’s plane until about fifteen years ago.” Arthur replied matter-of-factly; he shrugged and stretched his arms out, laying his wrists over the table, letting them click as he turned them, “I guess I never really thought about it much; though, I’d quite like to be one of those guys in hotels that push the luggage cages.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that.” Deborah remarked, smirking at the sudden shift in Arthur’s expression, as if he were afraid that he had slipped up and ruined his otherwise optimistic demeanour; she could just about picture him rolling about on the ground floor of a hotel somewhere, though where he would find one near Fitton was beyond her.

“No, no, it sounds fun.” Arthur insisted seriously, nodding vehemently as if the motion might add to his point; he still didn’t sound too sure though, “I’d rather be at MJN, but I wouldn’t _mind_ working in a hotel.”

“You didn’t honestly think it was going to last forever?” Deborah asked wryly, watching carefully for his reaction; this wasn’t so bad actually. If Arthur was allowed to interrogate her over Martin, she was allowed to press him over the potential disastrous end of the company; a little heart to heart.

“Didn’t you?” Arthur retorted, bewildered; he always had lived in his own little world, one that Deborah never attempted to venture into, save for in small, almost non-existent doses, “Because, you’ve worked with us for years, nearly from the beginning, and I’ve never heard of you trying to get out – not like Martin used to anyway.”

“Hmmm.” Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, and let her shoulders sag as she pulled away and brought her arms back over her chest; what a wonderful little reminder, she thought, disdaining the prickle in her chest at the mention.

“It’ll be alright though,” Arthur assured her, batting a hand through the air to punctuate his words; there would be no convincing him that perhaps things would not work themselves out, “because even if it does end, you, me, and Mum will still all have each other, and Martin won’t stop calling us or coming to visit.”

“You and Carolyn will be fine, of course.” Deborah interjected before he could carry on with any more spiel; realising that she may have been a little too honest, but not quite willing to stop, Deborah glanced down at her sleeve, and began to pick at a loose thread, slouching a fraction more in a show of forced nonchalance, “I’m not sure about what will happen to me.”

“Why would anything happen?” Arthur asked innocently; Deborah had to swallow back a wash of despair when she glanced up only to find him watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer that she didn’t really want to give. Then again, it was nice to be able to shovel her worries onto someone that wasn’t likely to carry them around with him for weeks after the event.

“Because we’d all be splitting up and I’ve become rather used to having you all around.” Deborah admitted reluctantly; the only saving grace against the petulant lump in her throat was the fact that Arthur wasn’t the sort of person to tease her for such a sentimental remark.

“Well, yeah, so why should anything happen?” Arthur replied plainly, in a way that only he could; Deborah could only grit her teeth and purse her lips, too emotionally exhausted to bother fighting with him, “Mum and I aren’t going anywhere.”

“That’s because you’re a family that lives together.” Deborah reminded him stiffly; at the odd scrunch of Arthur’s face, she tore her eyes away to watch the young woman who was manning the till waft her towel around, brushing crumbs from the counter, “I don’t have that luxury; I’m going to have to start looking for other jobs-”

“But if you’re counting Mum and I as one group, then you and Martin are included in that group as well-” Arthur insisted, leaning to the side to try and catch Deborah’s eyes; damn, he was like a dog with a bone, unable to tell that Deborah didn’t want to discuss it, leaving the ball in his court.

“As employees and friends, perhaps-” Deborah sighed, fluttering her hand through her hair and taking the opportunity to close her eyes in despair; how she had expected Arthur to understand was beyond her.

“No, as family.” Arthur interrupted her, speaking brightly, absolutely certain that he was correct as Deborah let her eyes wander back across to meet his, ignoring the gnawing in her guts, “We’ve had employees, like all those Captains at the start, and they never lasted long, and we barely knew them. But you’ve been a part of MJN from the start, and you hang around with me in and out of work, and we’ve been to each other’s houses, and we know each other’s proper families a bit.”

“It’s not the same.” Deborah muttered, biting her tongue to stop herself from saying anything else; anything else could have been everything from a sarcastic retort to a soppy exclamation rooting in the horrible buzzing in her chest at Arthur’s ridiculous ideas. It was silly, but on top of the niggling sparked each time she checked her watch, it was a struggle not to let her lips tremble slightly.

“Yes it is.” Arthur insisted, finally placing his drink down so that he could engage her more sincerely; god dammit that was the last thing she needed, “Because even though I can sort of imagine MJN ending, I can’t imagine not having you around because you’re a huge part of my life now.”

“Okay…” Deborah sighed, placing her palm over her eyes as she nodded hastily, urging Arthur to stop talking before her already precarious balance was thrown and she plunged into a well of misery; as always, his attempts at cheering her up, although sincere and rather lovely, just made her want to crawl back inside her own chest, it was either awful, or too good to be true.

There was a moment of silence, in which Deborah inhaled deeply, calming herself; then Arthur’s eyes blew wide, and his smile fell, and he almost tipped forwards with the extent of his hurried speech, as he scanned her posture.

“Oh no, I’ve made you all teary again.” Arthur exclaimed, sounding heartbroken, even as Deborah let out a choked laugh and dropped her hand, shaking her head; well, she might as well get it all out now before Martin came out of his exam and found them, “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry, I’m fine.” Deborah instructed, clearing her throat and shifting so that she was no longer slumped, regaining some sense of propriety; she could almost see the staff watching her from the corners of their eyes, worried perhaps that there might be some sort of scene between the two of them, “It’s just been a very emotional, highly stressful couple of weeks.”

“Oh, it’ll get better.” Arthur informed her, his worry dropping away like borrowed robes; Deborah quirked an eyebrow at him, bemused by the ease with which he was reassured. Then the hard edge in her throat softened, and his bumbling easiness lured her inevitably into his clutches.

“And if it doesn’t and I end up jobless, loveless, and unable to pay my rent?” she inquired cautiously, making sure to sit up straight and peer at the edge of the table, avoiding the temptation to sag and appear emotional or afraid; if Arthur thought that she was really afraid, then he would tell Carolyn, and she would never live it down.

“We’ve got loads of spare rooms you could have.” Arthur answered, successfully convinced that if worst came to worst, then the problem could be easily solved; Deborah didn’t quite like his suggestion, but she supposed that it was a touching thought, “Mum might put up a fight, but that’s only so that you don’t think she likes you as much as she does. She does really like you, or she wouldn’t have kept you.”

“That’s…” Deborah grasped at words for a moment, taking Arthur’s judgement with a pinch of salt; she and Carolyn had an understanding, but he would always find light in the darkest of places, “comforting I suppose.”

When Arthur only nodded knowledgably, Deborah sighed again, and looked away from him, watching the people pass by the window; not long now, and they’d have to join the masses and meet Martin, who right in that moment might have been sealing his future away from them. No amount of comfort could quell the prickling mess that that made of her emotional psyche, nor calm the itching beneath her skin.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Arthur asked, his voice dropping down into a concerned tenor; Deborah’s head snapped back up, and this was apparently encouragement enough, “Because, sometimes it helps if the things in your head get to come out for a bit.”

“I…of course I’m not alright.” Deborah tried to excuse herself for only a second before her resolve broke, and the words rushed from her mouth without her permission; it was all she could do not to let herself choke on them, “Martin’s going to go far away and I’ve pushed him into the arms of another nicer, better woman who he’s going to fall in love with when he’s supposed to be here with me.”

“I’m sure if you asked him-” Arthur started, but Deborah cut him off with a briefly raised hand and a shake of her head.

“No.” she ordered snippily, pursing her lips; the last thing that she wanted was false comfort, and nothing would make it better. All she needed was to learn to cope with her understanding of how life was going to be from now on.

“Oh, alright.” Arthur replied, ducking his head to inspect his fingers; at the dejection in his voice, Deborah was struck by a pang of guilt, and quickly changed the subject. He did so love to talk about himself.

“Have you heard anything back from Lily recently?” Deborah inquired pleasantly, slapping on a tense smile and unwinding her arms from her chest, leaning forwards to rest her arms on the table and play at being companionable despite her mood.

Arthur’s face lit up, and all was apparently forgiven; that, at least, would never change.

“Oh, yeah, she’s having tons of fun, and she’s thinking of staying in Italy for good.” Arthur explained cheerfully; when he saw the sympathetic frown that crept on Deborah’s lips, he shook his head and waved his hand carelessly through the air, “No, that’s not a bad thing; she’s having a nice time, and anyway, I met this nice girl in the chip shop in Fitton who’s really pretty and likes to make art out of her hair colour and tattoos.”

“Wow…” Deborah let out a hearty exhale, and sat back in her seat; at least somebody was living a life free of angst, “Let nobody say that you don’t have a thrilling love life.”

oOoOoOo

When Martin appeared from inside the test centre, his cheeks were red and he was gnawing on his bottom lip to the point that Deborah imagined it ached, clenching his hands together, but he didn’t seem to be panicking anymore; she had known that he would be fine when he got down to it. Or, at least, she had been mostly certain.

“How’d it go Skip?” Arthur hurried to ask him the moment that they were within three feet of each other, grinning as if Martin had already passed with flying colours; Martin spluttered a bit, and blushed even further, so Deborah took pity on his post-test daze and stepped between them.

“You did well I presume?” Deborah inquired quietly, reaching out to brush the back of his hand with hers before taking her hands away and wrapping her arms around her chest; Martin met her soft smile with a wavering one of his own, awkwardly putting an arm out to guide the two of them out of the path of the people of London, “You didn’t upset the invigilators?”

“N-no, I don’t think so, I think I did alright actually – yes, I-I was fine.” Martin replied, seeming to have trouble forming coherent sentences; he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then through his hair, and carried on a little sheepishly, “I may have, um, accidently insulted them a bit at the beginning, but when the test started I did exactly what you told me to, and only spoke when spoken to.”

“Brilliant Skip.” Arthur congratulated him, moving through the pedestrians to clap Martin on the back, making him stumble a little closer to Deborah, who caught him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, so long as you did well in the tests, then there’s nothing they can do.” Deborah reassured him, giving his upper arm a little squeeze that seemed to calm him just a fraction, “I’m sure that you’ve done perfectly Captain.”

“Yes, yes – I’m sure.” Martin agreed, swallowing hard as he nodded; he didn’t look convince, but his jaw set nonetheless as he looked between the two of them, “Home?”

Deborah rolled her eyes, and gave him one last pat before shifting to his side, and hooking an arm through his, starting their slow and intermittent pace away from the test centre; she was caught between being happy for him, and choking the trembling in her stomach.

“Yes Martin, home.” She promised, glancing around him to meet Arthur’s gaze, “A bite to eat, our treat, and then home, where you will proceed to sleep for the rest of the day, and night, and come back to work with hands steady enough to fly a real plane.”


	43. Yverdon-Les-Bains

**Yverdon-les-bains**

Swiss Air had invited Martin in for an interview; supposing that he didn’t mess it up (which in fairness, was a possibility), Deborah knew that all of her efforts to prepare him for the event were tantamount to giving him a life jacket and choosing to drown herself; but she was pleased for him, her smiles and congratulations when he had received the letter in the porta-cabin had been genuine. Despite everything, she really did want Martin to do well; it would have been wrong to hold him back.

Besides, it was only a fifty-fifty chance now, and Deborah was ready and willing to either console Martin’s failure and carry on their lives as they were before their relationship had ever taken place, or to bid him farewell, safe in the knowledge that he was happy, and that while he was flourishing, there would always be a quick and easy way to keep in touch via the internet.

Today Martin was flying out to Switzerland in order to take the interview; the physical separation, and the act of seeing him off as he boarded a plane to the country that might steal him from them seemed almost symbolic, and Deborah imagined that when the time came, she could draw upon this to keep her steady.

There was really no need for the entire crew of MJN to have accompanied Martin to the airport, but Carolyn and Arthur seemed to understand that monumental gravitas of the moment as much as she did; the only difference was how eager they were to get him out of the door. Carolyn, though she would deny it, was mothering him like mad, wafting him into the arms of a better deal and alleviating her guilt by accepting graciously the inevitable fall of her accursed company, and Arthur was simply as cheerful as ever.

It was all far too _normal_ for Deborah to be anything other than pleasantly supportive, even if the airport did see, a little chillier than the dress of the other customers suggested. The four of them sat in a small collective on one of the standard metal benches that airports such as this provided, Martin seated in the middle, breathing deeply, with Deborah at his side.

“Alright?” Deborah inquired brightly, smiling encouragingly as she made sure to keep her hands curled soothingly around Martin’s arm, sitting turned towards him closely enough that the back of his shoulder almost pressed against her own arm, rubbing small circles with her thumbs and demonstrating the correct pace for the heaving in his chest to follow, “We’re breathing nice and evenly now?”

“Yeah, yes.” Martin nodded, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as he inhaled and exhaled calmly; he was subtly leaning into Deborah’s side, but she didn’t have the heart to deny him such a luxury, “Nice and steady, in and out.” Then Martin’s eyes blew wide, and flickered hastily between Deborah and Carolyn, “Oh god, what if I hyperventilate, or-or my brain runs off with itself?”

“Martin, you’re terrible, but you’re not _that_ terrible.” Deborah reassured him drolly, quirking an eyebrow at him in the hopes that he would fall into his usual patterns of superiority and pomposity in response; she gave his arm another squeeze, “Remember how confident you were two minutes ago?”

Martin had been ridiculously confident, and then not, and then confident again, throughout the entire drive to the airport, puffing out his chest and flushing and running his hands through his now ruffled beyond belief ginger hair; Deborah was well aware that under pressure, he could thrive, but such a thing existed as the _wrong_ kind of pressure. The sort that Martin believed he could deal with tended to be the sort that caught him out.

“Yes, yes I do. I’ve done interviews before…” Martin replied, his voice shifting into a more certain scratchy tenor as he nodded decidedly and squared his shoulders, stretching the fingers on both hands over his knees in a show of confidence, “I’ll just be even better than I was then. Just as if I were talking to one of you lot.”

“Exactly.” Deborah agreed dutifully; all that was needed now was a little pandering to his ego, and a wee dram of teasing to make him feel more at home, then Martin would be ready to tackle anything that was thrown at him, “They’re just people, and you’re a _Captain_.”

“Yes I am.” Martin spoke almost to himself, his jaw setting as his cheeks flushed red enough to hide the freckles that spackles his face; it was wonderful to see him so proud and ready for action, which only served to make a slither of guilt trickle into Deborah’s guts as she fleetingly prayed that he would mess up, and badly, so that he could come home and she could comfort him. It would be wrong of her to think such things, she mused, and she fixed her smile.

“ _Passengers for Flight SA23 to Yverdon, we should be ready to board you within ten minutes.”_ A female voice rang out over the tannoy, and each member of MJN looked up towards the ceiling, allowing an odd quiet to fall over them.

“Right, right, right-right-right-right-right.” Martin spluttered, inhaling sharply and dragging in a nervous breath; Deborah leant into his warmth as a sign of support, and he responded likewise, not even acknowledging the shift, as he looked between Carolyn and Arthur, “Anyone got any more practice questions?”

“What’s been your best crash?” Arthur chimed in brightly; he leaned where he was perched on the back of the opposite seat, his feet on the base, so that he could clasp his hands together and rest his arms on his knees while he narrowed his eyes expectantly at Martin.

“Anyone apart from Arthur.” Martin amended, rolling his eyes; for a moment the exhaustion of a night spend tossing and turning fell like a shadow behind his expression, but it was gone the moment that it appeared.

“Oh, here’s an old one,” Deborah remarked, patting Martin’s arm one last time before slipping her hands away, and pulling her arms over her chest; he was fine now, her job was done, and now it was time to prod him a little, get him properly relaxed, “you’re on a stopover in Bangkok, and your captain meets you in the hotel bar wearing a red cocktail dress. What do you say?”

“Oh, right.” Martin replied, the picture of thoughtful stoicism; Deborah let a smirk crawl onto her lips, and waited for his inevitable stumble, best to get it all out now, “Er, well, um … it’s not on company time or property … um, so in the spirit of respecting his life choices, I’d …”

“No, no.” Deborah interrupted wryly, raising a hand into the air and relishing the rapt attention that Martin gave her before his eyebrows dropped in fond resignation, “You tell her how well it goes with her earrings.”

“Oh, but that’s not fair!” Martin insisted, sighing and slumping imperceptibly as he scrunched his face up; a fighty Martin was a fine Martin, so there was nothing to worry about, “The question pre-supposes the …”

“Don’t scare the boy, Deborah.” Carolyn scolded her lightly; Deborah bit back a scoff, and raised her eyebrows pointedly at her; honestly, to think that Carolyn of all people was lecturing her on treating Martin right, “They don’t really go in for trick ones these days, Martin. It’ll just be things like: what would you say is your worst quality?”

“Oh-oh-oh-oh, yes; I’ve got a great one for this.” Martin chirped, regaining some of his jauntier excitement; Deborah recognised that tone of voice, and the small mercy was that it was this kind of attitude might lead Martin to a nice long stay with MJN, “I saw it on a website. My worst quality, I’m afraid, is that I am sometimes a bit too much of a perfectionist.”

Deborah groaned dramatically just as Carolyn let out a similar, more genuinely despairing sound, placing her hand over her eyes as if to fleetingly protect herself from the dreary mess of the world.

“Whatever you do, don’t say that.” Carolyn instructed him sternly, holding Martin’s gaze even as he shook his head, and blinked imploringly back at her.

“W-w-why not?” Martin asked, pouting as if his sensibilities had been wounded; he turned between Carolyn and Deborah, aiming his proposition like the schemer that he occasionally tried to be, “Don’t you see? It’s really clever because it sounds like I’m criticising myself, but-but actually, being a perfectionist is a good thing for a pilot to be, so …”

“Yes, I understand the fiendish cunning of it, Martin. I just fear it may have lost the first fine flush of youth.” Carolyn argued wryly, ignoring Martin as he sighed in exasperation; Deborah gave him a little nudge as he slouched into her, keeping the smirk on her face, finding that it wasn’t as hard as it felt when he was floundering as such, “You should say something that shows you’re genuinely aware of your weak points as a pilot.”

“Oooh!” Deborah drawled salaciously into Martin’s ear, grinning as she pretended to lift her eyes upwards in deep thought, and prodded his ankle with the tip of her toes; she was sure that he knew she was joking, so his confidence couldn’t be knocked too far, “I’m sure I’ve got a few.”

“Yes, thank you, Deborah.” Carolyn raised her voice above the rabble, glaring pointedly at her with a degree of malice that promised much suffering if she knocked Martin from his game; it was as if she wanted him to leave, “I am not looking for contributions from the floor.”

“Ooh-ooh, I know.” Arthur interjected eagerly, not waiting for Martin’s attention before he continued, “Make it something, um, you can’t help but will make them feel sorry for you. Like, um, your worst quality is, er, you’re blind.”

Before any of them could come back with anything remotely witty, the tannoy rang our once again, signalling the beginning of the end; Deborah tried to not grimace that the disembodied voice.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen, Flight SA23 is now ready for boarding.”_

“Ooh. Okay!” Martin gasped, his voice anxious and high pitched as he stumbled to his feet, and ran his hands over his uniform; Deborah followed the over, as did Carolyn and Arthur in the next second, and stood at his elbow while he dragged in a breath and hoisted his small carry-on bag over his elbow, “Okay-okay-okay-okay-okay-okay.”

“Good luck, Martin, and remember: be calm …” Carolyn ran over the same thing that she had run over at least four times before, hands extended as if to embrace the air that surrounded him, but not _him_ , as Martin hummed in acknowledgement, biting his lip anxiously, “… take your time …”

“Yes.” Martin replied, his nodding beginning to resemble that of a small artificial dog.

“Be assertive …” Deborah added, stepping away from Martin’s side so that she could occupy his attention, now standing partially before him, her hand moving of its own accord to rest on his free elbow; if nothing else, she supposed, it seemed to help with the jittering, her eyes giving him something to focus his own on.

“… but relaxed …” Carolyn concluded, coming to stand on his other side, although, perhaps not as near; Deborah caught her eye in the split second that she tore her eyes from Martin’s, and was disheartened to find that even though their goal was the same, there was a grave juxtaposition between what Deborah was feeling in her gut, and whatever it was that motivated the older woman.

“Yes, yes!” Martin exclaimed, raising his hands into the air as if to shield himself; Deborah stepped back sheepishly, only an inch, realising that perhaps they _had_ been crowding him somewhat like children did to fluffy creatures brought into primary schools.

“Good luck, Skip!” Arthur instructed, coming to stand between Deborah and Carolyn, unabashed and smiling as brightly as ever; at least somebody was able to see the bright side of things without being tainted by selfishness or jealousy, “Just be yourself!”

“No!!” Deborah and Carolyn groaned simultaneously; Martin’s face fell, but into a sort of twisted, resigned frown that was more run of the mill than upset or insulted, as one of his hands clutched at the bag over his arm.

“Don’t do that!” Deborah warned seriously, albeit, pointing a playful finger at him, hoping that Martin could see that it was all just a mask for her unwavering support and faith in him; it was that, or let him see that she was sad, which wouldn’t make for a pleasant interview.

“Be a version of yourself.” Carolyn added helpfully, wincing as if at the very thought of Martin floundering under inspection.

“Quite a different version from usual.” Deborah interjected; now that he was on his feet and ready to leave, it seemed all the more difficult to actually let him walk away, like a rope tied around her ribs forcing her to keep reassuring him for something that she wasn’t entirely ready to let him tackle.

“Oh, all right.” Martin grouched tetchily; that was a good sign, he was always more confident when he was annoyed, “Thank you.”

After a few awkward nods, and a brief little goodbye wave, Martin began to turn, and to walk away, but Deborah stumbled after him, clearing her throat as he ground to a halt mere seconds after taking off.

“Martin, hold on.” Deborah requested, letting go of her pride for a moment and openly and honestly curling a hand around his wrist; from there she reached up on her toes and brought her arms up to slip fleetingly around his shoulders, a brief, light hug, before she stood back and straightened his tie, lingering a little as she flattened his lapels, “There we go.” She remarked gently, smiling up at Martin as he blinked down at her, his eyes dewy and his face soft as he turned into her embrace; she patted him lightly and instructed cheerfully, lowering her voice so that she could pretend it was just them, “Now, good luck, you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” Martin replied quietly, his voice lowering to a sort of choked up grumble, “I-I-I- thank you.” His throat bobbed as he leaned back, and forced his lips into a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “I’ll see you soon.”

With that he pulled Deborah into another fleeting one armed hug, and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, barely a brush of his lips; then he was striding away, and Deborah was falling back into step beside Arthur, decidedly ignoring the bereft sensation in her chest.

“Good luck, Skip! I hope you get the job!” Arthur called across the airport; Martin sort of twirled in the distance, a nod to the steward before he carried on as he was, “But I also hope you stay with us! So overall, I hope, er … I don’t know what I hope!”

“Tell you what, Arthur, give it another crack and try stopping after ‘good luck’.” Deborah remarked dryly, no longer in the mood for playing; they had a long day ahead of them, which would be made only longer by the empty space beside her own pilot’s seat.

“Good luck!” Arthur corrected himself; now that Martin was only a back in the distance, he turned back to Deborah and noted that, “Oh, yeah, that is better.”

oOoOoOo

If there had been one thing guaranteed to make Deborah’s day a thousand times worse, it was the force presence of Herc Shipwright in _Martin_ ’ _s_ seat; Herc, being all smug, and smarmy, and getting better treatment than she ever had. It was sickening, and she was angrier than she should have been, but Deborah couldn’t help it.

When alone, irritation or misery were easy to handle; Deborah was well versed in swallowing her annoyance, and was a seasoned veteran of ignoring the angsting, pining ache in her chest. But when the two intersected, it felt like balancing on the thrumming string of a violin, pulled taut and ready to burst into tears or fury at any moment.

The only positive side to their flight so far was the fact that years ago, Herc had told Deborah that she would never truly fit back into the strict and structured atmosphere of the big airline; well, now _Herc_ was reacting to the haphazard nature of MJN like a floundering fish thrown headfirst into a tiger’s den.

The flight-deck door swung open with a swish, but Deborah only glanced over her shoulder, aware that there was no one qualified to silently hover as she momentarily took her hands from the controls; she just had to pay extra attention today.

“Hello, chaps.” Arthur announced, his voice still muffled and podgy from his run in with the dragon fruit; he walked up behind the seats, and Deborah saw that in his hands he held two mugs of steaming hot liquid. Which was a relief; if he was going about his job then there was nothing to worry about, medically speaking.

“Hello, Arthur.” Herc replied kindly, accepting his drink from Arthur giving him a visible once over, while the steward leaned around the back of Deborah’s seat and placed her tea in its usual place.

“Cheas and coffees.” Arthur explained as he always did, standing back and leaning on the back of Deborah’s seat when he had completed his task, “Chea for you, Dephrah, an’ coffee for you, Skik.”

“Thank you.” Herc told him gratefully, but Deborah was too busy reeling at the words that had left Arthur’s mouth to pay him much attention; that wasn’t correct, not at all, and it made her feel as if something cold and hard had taken root in the base of her throat.

“Wait a minute: coffee for _who?_ ” Deborah demanded, making sure to keep her hands on the controls as she turned to glare at Arthur over her shoulder; that there was a smug bastard watching her feigning passivity to her side didn’t help her mood, neither did Arthur’s simple, cluelessly inquisitive hum, “What did you call him?”

“Who, Skik?” Arthur asked, completely unaffected in a way that made Deborah suck in a ragged breath, and purse her lips petulantly; Martin was barely even out of the door, and they were already playing house without him, “Skip.”

“He’s not ‘Skip’.” Deborah stated sharply, setting her expression and internally warring against the ache in her chest; it only peripherally occurred to her that she was on the verge of getting worked up, but she was too busy venting to care, “ _Martin_ is Skip.”

“Well, yeah, but it’sh jusht short for ‘Skipper’, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, adding insult to injury by glancing fleetingly at Herc; that just wasn’t fair, if Martin wasn’t there, then it was still _her_ flight-deck, and _her_ that had been there from the start.

“Yes! And he’s not the skipper.” Deborah snapped, hearing her own voice come out perhaps a little shrilly, not that there was a chance to change that when her chest was juddering with the effort of maintaining her composure as she gestured sharply at herself, “ _I’m_ the skipper, so don’t call _him_ Skip.”

“But I thought Shkipper jusht meant ‘Captain’.” Arthur insisted, raising his hands in surrender and stepping back a little so that he was no longer encroaching on her space.

“No. ‘Skipper’ means person in charge of the vessel,” Deborah corrected him, her voice rising angrily into a higher pitch, as she gripped the controls in one hand and glared at him furiously over her shoulder, “and as I am the only one on board who is trained or qualified to fly her, I think you’ll find that I am the supreme commander of th…”

Like being struck by lightning, Deborah trailed off, her eyes widening as she was hit by a flash from the past, the echo of years ago ringing in her ears; just like that, the sound of Martin’s voice in her head drove home his absence, and as Deborah slumped back around in her seat, she had to inhale slowly to battle down the heat that was welling behind her eyes. She couldn’t let Herc have that to use against her.

“Y’all right, Commander?” Herc inquired, his tone teasing and jesting; from the corner of her eyes she could see him smirking at her, like a cat that was watching the cream flounder around, with no intention of getting it, simply enjoying the show.

“What have I become?” Deborah sighed, horrified; she placed the heel of her palm over her eyes, and pressed her lips together tightly, trying desperately to push away everything that was whirring down through her head to her chest to her guts. Now was not the time, and absolutely not the place.

“Wow, you shounded jush like Martin then.” Arthur remarked from somewhere over Deborah’s shoulders, clearly misunderstanding the tone and declaring his joy as he was wont to do without thought.

“Yes, thank you Arthur,” Deborah muttered from underneath her hand, slowly lowering it so that she could continue to fulfil her responsibility and actually fly the plane, as nobody else could; she made sure not to look either man in the eyes, “now go and look after the passengers please.”

“Righhto.” Arthur slurred slightly, but thankfully did as he was asked; a moment later the flight-deck door clanged shut, and Deborah was left with one less person to pointedly ignore.

Not that Herc seemed to understand that Deborah didn’t want to do anything but ignore him, as she could feel his eyes on her, and the shift from humorous to slightly concerned was almost tangible in the air; that was the last thing she needed, his sympathy.

“I know that I was joking when I asked if you were alright, but I feel that it might be pertinent to note that mid-air might not be the best place to have an existential crisis.” Herc remarked dryly; when Deborah glanced towards him, and saw his hand hovering between them, it took a moment for her to realise that it wasn’t a gesture of kindness, but rather a precaution in case he needed to take the controls, “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Deborah replied shortly, swallowing hard to bring herself back to an approximate measure of calm; she’d done a good job of keeping herself to herself recently, and now was _not the time_.

“Well…you know what it’s like when you spend a lot of time in close proximity to another person, especially one that you’re _very_ close to.” Herc began to explain, as if he understaff what she was feeling and was honestly trying to comfort her; Deborah had enough piece of mind to appreciate the effort, but that just wasn’t what was wrong, not even a little bit, though it did add to the dull throbbing in her chest, and the welling behind her eyes, “You start picking up on some of their more prominent…quirks…or speech patterns, turns of phrase, bad habits, just little character traits…”

“Is that so?” Deborah responded tautly; maybe if he kept talking he would wear himself out and let her have the rest of the flight in peace.

“Yes, I think so.” Herc rattled off, nodding sagely to himself; it wasn’t as easy as she had thought to ignore him as he pressed his hands together, finally leaning back as if the threat was gone, “I noticed a few months back that Martin was doing the same with you; little things, like the odd things you do with your face when you think you’re being clever, or his newfound nonchalance when it comes to scheming. Oh, and his general demeanour, so it goes both ways-”

“Yes, that _is_ lovely,” Deborah remarked through gritted teeth, her voice weak and strained as she gripped one of the controls almost painfully; she couldn’t ignore it, not now it felt like some sort of dam was breaking and pouring into the base of her throat, a sticky, unpleasant despair, “but it’s not really shared behaviours that are worrying me.”

“Oh?” Herc made an inquisitive noise, his expression softening into light confusion as he turned slightly; Deborah tried not to pay heed to the way that her lips were trembling, or her eyes were prickling, making it just a little harder to see.

“It’s – it’s just…something that Martin said to me…years and years ago,” Deborah explained, bereft of her usual sarcasm or poise; she swallowed hard, and tried not to focus on how much the memories made her want to curl into a ball and revisit them, cling to the empty space, “hell, we can’t have been working together more than nine months. But it was so _him_ – even now, when I think of what makes Martin, _Martin_ , I hear him whining about being Supreme Commander…”

“That’s understandable.” Herc said slowly, as if bridging a particularly precarious gap, “You’ve been together a long time; I’d be surprised if you _weren’t_ fond of habits he’s retained from the past.”

“Actually, back then, I sort of wanted to punch him.” Deborah remarked, releasing a sort of truncated, half-hearted laugh that wrenched from her chest and broke through the dam that she had been building up; that moment of wonderful affection, recalling how _good_ it felt to have felt that way, in retrospect, only made it harder to fight tears in the present, and she hastily rubbed her thumb over her eyes before any could fall onto her cheeks.

“Oh…” Herc replied, sounding resignedly surprised; Deborah thought that that was the end of it, until he continued, carefully, “well, if it helps, I always sort of want to punch _you_.”

“Shockingly enough, it doesn’t.” Deborah retorted, but it nonetheless brought a dejected smile to her lips, and made her laugh just a little; she took her hands from the controls and rubbed them over her face, inhaling sharply in an attempt to regain her composure.

“Deborah, really though; you’re holding the lives of many people in your hands, so I’m going to go out on a limb and ask again, if you’re okay?” Herc asked tentatively, his arm once again extending as if he might rescue a plane that he had no idea how to fly.

“Yes, I’m fine…” Deborah assured him, nodding and taking the controls back in hand despite the fact that GERTI was perfectly capable of maintaining herself mid-air, mid-flight; now would have been a good time to stop, but…there was a part of her that just needed to get out, for her own sake, and it wasn’t as if Herc was _cruel,_ “I just…you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” Herc offered; apparently understanding the situation, he shifted so that he was facing forwards, reducing the chance that he might see something in her that she wanted to keep to herself.

“You’d mock me.” Deborah remarked wryly, quirking her eyebrows sardonically as she ran her eyes over the control panels, barely taking in the readings as she eventually chose to watch the sky instead.

“I promise, I won’t.” Herc stated surely; Deborah didn’t look at him, but she inhaled slowly. She didn’t feel quite so close to tears anymore, so this couldn’t be so bad; cathartic, maybe, a little emotional therapy to make life easier.

“I…back then, when Martin was…when he was like this, when he was shrill and defensive, and insisted we all called him _sir_ …it wasn’t a quirk, it…it was because he felt threatened, and nervous, and…and like if he didn’t keep control, his life might be pulled out from under him.” Deborah explained, squaring her jaw against the rush of dejection; oh god, she had been wrong, the tears weren’t gone, the misery was creeping back to choke her, and her voice was wavering, “Which makes sense, because it was his first piece of authority, unpaid, and it very well might have been…”

“So…” Herc prompted, his hand curling through the air, encouraging her to carry on; not that there was much point, as Deborah was tumbling into a teary mess without his help.

“So, he’s not like that anymore, because he’s got his whole life in order.” Deborah exclaimed, throwing a hand helplessly into the air and shaking her head, despairing at herself, “But I…I’m not just picking up on his quirks, i-it’s happening to _me_ …my whole world is just crumbling around me, and he’s going, and MJN’s ending, and -”

“And I suppose I’m sort of usurping your authority?” Herc remarked apologetically; Deborah nodded, pressing her lips together and doing her best to straighten her back, regaining what little composure she still possessed.

“Yes, yes you are.” Deborah replied firmly, taking in another deep breath and rubbing the side of her hand over her eyes; nearly better, as best as she could manage now that the tense ball of nerves was floating somewhere in the air, leaving an empty space in her chest, “I just, it’s _my_ flight-deck, it has been for years, mine and Martin’s, so I…I just snapped… and … it was as if I was seeing the whole world through Martin’s eyes.”

“That sounds unnerving.” Herc said patiently; Deborah glanced sideways at him, and was grateful to find that he was picking at the loose switch that she and Martin had taped there after they had discovered it and couldn’t work out where it had come from, rather than watching her.

“It was absolutely terrifying! I don’t know how he does it!” Deborah stressed, rolling her eyes at herself; then another slim finger of rejection plucked at her heartstrings, “Or how he ever put up with me, let alone wanted to _be_ with me.”

“A steady hand, perhaps?” Herc suggested; Deborah merely shrugged, so he left it at that, and pushed on with other avenues of interrogation, or encouragement, whatever it was that he thought he was doing, “D’you think he’ll get the job?”

“I hope so.” Deborah answered honestly, albeit quietly and reluctantly; for all of her angst and misery, she cared far too much about Martin to actually consider letting him wallow in the dregs of their ramshackle company.

“You hope so?” Herc repeated, with an edge of surprise; there was that, Deborah supposed, she could still catch people off guard. Even this many years into her life, nobody seemed to realise that deep down, she really was a genuinely decent person, not quite as selfish as she might appear.

“I want him to be happy,” Deborah explained plainly, sighing as she blinked at the sky and let her emotions mull over and around her head, collating in her chest like a dreary little rain pool, “and he can’t have that here.”

“He always seems quite happy when I see him about.” Herc retorted honestly; Deborah didn’t know what he was trying to achieve, especially as this was the man that had already taken a job for Swiss Air, and had made no secret of the fact that Martin would end up working below him.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing elsewhere.” Deborah remarked flippantly; that wasn’t entirely true, but Deborah couldn’t help but feel like it was, “We’ve brainwashed him into thinking that what we’ve got is fun and better…but Martin likes order, and procedure, and he needs a proper wage, because it’s not fair to keep him unpaid.” At the Deborah inhaled sharply and picked at the controls, curling her fingers around the yoke to try and evade the tendrils of bitterness that threatened to leak into her tone, “Besides, he’s got himself a nice woman over there…that’s got to be a healthier relationship than one built on snide remarks and teasing.”

“I find that it works well enough, so long as you’re both content; healthy is transitory.” Herc debated; Deborah waited for him to smack his lips awkwardly and take the conversational wheel again, in no rush to explore the churning that his words incited in her guts, “From a professional standpoint, bereft of romance?”

“Well, I suppose I feel the way any rat on a sinking ship would feel if she saw one of the other rats leaping into a passing speed boat,” Deborah replied plainly, allowing herself to be carried if only momentarily by the less than pleasant emotions that she had been trying hard not to acknowledge, “pleased for my fellow rat …”

“… but a little jealous of his speed boat.” Herc concluded, peering sideways at her for confirmation; unwilling to delve much further, Deborah simply nodded and hummed her assent, looking away and settling down to frown and grumble for the rest of the flight, eager to push away every little musing that possessed her mind in that moment.

Except in that moment the flight-deck door clanged open, and Carolyn must have been listening from outside for the speed with which she picked up the conversational thread; Deborah wasn’t even sure what to make of that, but the time for stoic denial was far gone.

“Whose speed boat?” Carolyn demanded, coming to stand between the two pilots’ seats, a hand on the back of each as she peered suspiciously between the both of them; thank god for the sturdy sound block nature of the steel door.

“Martin’s.” Deborah answered swiftly, eyeing Herc cautiously from the corner of her eyes; it was easy to flick that switch and become composed again, now that the tears had receded, “I-I was saying …”

“Oh, well, actually, I don’t care.” Carolyn interrupted her, waving a hand; well, problem solved, Deborah assumed, taking stock of the useful opportunity to cease the heart to heart, “But talking of Martin, where is it he’s having this interview?”

“Yverdon-les-Bains, near Geneva.” Deborah supplied dutifully, glancing up at her employer, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Yyyes.” Carolyn replied, her eyes narrowing as if in deep thought, “Now that’s sort of on the way back for us, isn’t it?”

“Yyyes – it sort of is.” Deborah answered, her eyebrows furrowing; she wasn’t sure what Carolyn was getting at, but was prepared to listen, “I mean, it’s a very much going the pretty way …”

“Yes, well, it’s only money.” Carolyn remarked; at this Deborah exchanged a brief, stunned glance with Herc; that wasn’t what Carolyn had said the last time she and Martin had done circuits around the Isle of Wight, “Shall we pop in and pick him up?”

oOoOoOo

While Arthur had run ahead, Deborah hung back behind Herc and Carolyn as they made their way through the airport; even though she was aching to see Martin like someone was tugging her with a rope tied around her ribs, she was also terrified that the sight of him and the news that he possessed would shatter any resolve of calm that she had built.

“Ah. They’re in here.” Carolyn declared as they turned a corner into a slightly wider more open room; then there he was, Martin, standing with a befuddled looking Arthur.

Deborah barely took in anything that was going on around her, her attention completely invested in Martin’s face as his eyes fell on hers, and his expression softened and fell, as if his world was also narrowing down; then again, that was probably wishful thinking, as Martin turned towards them and his eyes flickered to the others, before coming back to rest on hers.

“Er, hi, Carolyn,” Martin stuttered; as Deborah’s pace slowed, Martin made up for it by stepping closer to her, almost turning away from the others and he tried to close the space between them, stopped only as Deborah deliberately left a foot or so of air, a certain gulf between them, “…Deborah.”

“Well?” Deborah demanded softly; she almost reached out to take his hands, and Martin reacted reflexively, but instead, regretting the action immediately, she merely moved a little closer, blinking up at him, stiff with repressed fear.

“Hi, Herc!” Martin muttered as the man appeared in his line of sight; even so, Martin was staring down at her, his cheeks red as he drew his bottom lip through his teeth. Deborah couldn’t be sure, but his forehead was crinkling in such a way that made her think that Martin was thinking hard, looking a little lost; it made her want to take hold of him and make things better, but that wasn’t her place.

“Never mind that.” Deborah said dismissively, eager to get answers out of him; she had to know whether she was losing him or not, and didn’t care that the others were there to see, “How did it go?”

“I-I, I-I-I was just telling Arthur about it.” Martin remarked, gesturing towards the steward, though his blue eyes never left Deborah’s; it was beginning to make something unsettle in her chest, and she found that she was just as confused as Arthur looked.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t completely undershtand.” Arthur interjected, though he was completely ignored by everyone else.

“Well, then, tell us!” Carolyn ordered hastily; Deborah couldn’t bear to look at her when she was so hopeful for good news, when all that she wanted herself was for Martin to have failed terribly, despite how much she wanted him to succeed, “Did you get in?”

For a moment Martin gulped, his throat bobbing, and his seemed a little dewy eyed as he stared, like a lost sheep, around at his crew; Deborah lifted her hand ever so slightly to brush the back of her fingers against his, and his head snapped around to follow the movement.

“… They’re going to let me know.” Martin finally answered; he blinked hard when the words left his mouth, and an odd calm seemed to settle over him.

That answer seemed enough for Carolyn, Herc, and Arthur, who congratulated Martin for not failing completely off the mark; there was still a fifty-fifty chance that he would get the job, and they were proud of them.

Martin received their praise with a stoic, abashed flush, and rubbed at the back of his neck, mumbling his thanks while Deborah stood to the side, watching and tempering the welling ache in her chest, the one that was genuinely so proud of him, yet so desperate not to let him go. She smiled warmly each time that Martin’s eyes wandered back to hers, which was remarkable often, and waited for the others to start making their way back to GERTI before treading lightly to Martin’s side where he remained rooted to the spot.

All it took was a slight nudge against his elbow, and Martin jolted back into life, and the two of them began walking slowly in the wake of the others, making their way through the airport side by side. Deborah wasn’t sure what to say to him, but whenever she glanced at him, Martin was watching her with a strange expression on his face; the half smile, accompanied by the warm glow in his eyes as they lingered over her features, made the familiar fluttering alight in her chest.

“What?” Deborah demanded lightly, turning until she could run her eyes over _his_ face; an eye for an eye, and all that. It wasn’t like Martin was being coy about staring at her.

“What?” Martin retorted, shrugging cluelessly as he extended his hands to his sides, turning and slowing his pace so that they could converse more easily, “What have I done?”

“You’re looking at me.” Deborah explained dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him and folding her arms over her chest; this was better, and so good, so nice to play and prod with Martin again, especially after a whole day in the company of nosy pests, “Why are you looking at me?”

“I’m _not_. I’m just thinking.” Martin exclaimed, a smirk nonetheless creeping onto his lips as he shook his head; Deborah allowed the pleasant glow to overtake the ache in her chest, deciding in that second that she’d just enjoy Martin now, and worry about a future alone when she wasn’t wasting precious moments, “I-it just so happens that you’re nicer to look at than the floor.”

“Oh, don’t you start that!” Deborah instructed coyly, unable to hold back her own smile, waggling a playful finger at him; Martin blushed bashfully, and drew his bottom lip through his teeth, allowing Deborah a moment to mull, and gain the confidence to ask the question that niggled at the back of her mind, “So…it went _well_ …but… _how_ did it go? Did you do everything I told you to?”

“Um…I, uh, more or less…mostly less.” Martin answered, bringing his hands together to wind his fingers together; a nervous tick that Deborah recognised, and immediately regretted causing, but then Martin turned back to look her in the eyes, and a self-deprecating smile appeared on his lips, “I um…I told them that I was like a capsized duck.”

“Oh?” Deborah couldn’t help exclaiming in surprise, raising her eyebrows and pressing her lips together; the way that he was looking at her, patient and expectant, Deborah was sure that Martin _wanted_ her to tease, perhaps a piece of familiarity to help him calm, but it occurred to her that perhaps it might be even better to say what she actually thought, to make him feel good rather than self-conscious, “I…well…” she drawled warmly, letting an affectionate softness fill her body, as she played up looking him over, and smiling, “I can sort of see it.”

Instead of retorting, or laughing, or anything that Deborah might have expected, Martin’s smile grew warmer, and his eyes almost burnt across her skin as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and a small, almost imperceptible chuckle rumbled in his chest; Deborah had to clear her throat and look away, towards the grimy floor, as for a moment, she felt like nothing had ever changed between them, and she might fall into the fondness that was radiating from Martin’s every pore.

“Well…I, uh…thanks, I think…” Martin finally replied, chuckling nervously; he nodded for Deborah to come along as he started to walk once again down the corridor. Deborah hadn’t even noticed that they had stopped moving.

Taking pity on him, and wanting the pleasant ease back to the way it had been a moment before, Deborah took a deep breath, and put on her most nonchalant façade, the one that Martin was likely to see through; though, that was rather the point. It was always so much nicer when they were on level footing.

“I’ve got something that might make you feel less embarrassed.” Deborah remarked coyly, waiting for the inquisitive cock of Martin’s head before she continued, “Guess who told Herc that…well…that she was the …’Supreme Commander’ of GERTI.”

Martin let out a pleased, practically erotic gasp, and turned to grasp Deborah’s shoulder with one hand, peering down into her eyes in disbelief; his face was a picture of devious, wicked joy.

“ _Oh_ , you _didn’t_!” Martin chuckled, his face splitting into the widest grin that Deborah had ever seen, as she felt her cheeks prickle, and dutifully rolled her eyes; with another hearty laugh, Martin swung his arm over her shoulders and began to walk again, “Oh, I want to hear _all_ about _that_!”

Sometimes, Deborah thought, inwardly berating the negative sparks in her chest; sometimes, it was absolutely worth coming down to his level.

oOoOoOo

It was well past midnight, and Deborah had drawn the curtains hours beforehand, in an attempt to lure her mind into thinking that it was time to sleep; unfortunately, she was anything but tired, kept awake by a whirring in her head that refused to die down. So instead, Deborah had changed into something comfortable and slouched onto her sofa with a book, barely focusing on the words.

Which was why it came as a surprise when an insistent by brief knocking reached her ears; Deborah startled, but as she peered over the top of the sofa, she realised that the noise was coming from the front door.

Groaning slightly, Deborah hoisted herself to her feet and wandered to answer the door, wondering who in their right mind was paying her a visit; shouldn’t they have known instinctively that she wasn’t in the mood for spontaneous guests.

Deborah was ready to give whoever it was a piece of her mind, when she yanked the door open, but was stunned into silence at the sight of Martin, wrapped in his over-sized coat, leaning against the side of the frame. His eyes lit up when he saw her, but Martin’s mouth fell open and no words came out; it anything, it was the puppy like edge to his expression that prompted her into action.

“Martin?” Deborah exclaimed weakly, raising her eyebrows, despite not knowing quite what to say; all that she had been able to think about since she had said goodbye to him at the end of the day was him, but now that Martin was actually before her, her whole being seemed to stutter, “What are you doing here…so late at night?”

“I wanted to see you.” Martin replied hastily, grasping the opportunity and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as if catching himself; Deborah held as still as she could, one hand still clutching the door handle, and tried not to be blinded by the fluttering in her chest, “I um…I just called things off with Theresa.”

“I’m sorry?” Deborah asked, blinking at Martin in disbelief, not quite seeing him; she knew that she should have been feeling something, but the words that had just left his mouth were still reeling through her mind.

“I just called things off; completely.” Martin repeated, and this time the message made it through, loud and clear; Deborah couldn’t do anything more than gape, frozen by the flickers of hot, scorching something that were tearing through her, at the sight of Martin’s flushed cheeks as he surely and certainly said what he wanted to say, “Anything that might have been there is completely over, and done with.”

“But, you still might go to Switzerland…” Deborah stated dumbly, staring at Martin as if it might make his confident and jittering posture more real; it felt like someone was reaching into her chest and pulling, yet cold, warning that nothing was as good as it seemed, “Why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t want Theresa.” Martin explained seriously, no suggestion of second thoughts or doubt anywhere near him as he shifted away from the doorframe to stand a little straighter, taking his hands from his pockets to clench at his sides; Deborah could _feel_ the hard weight at the base of her throat stuttered hopefully, even as her mind rebelled, “I want you.”

“What?” Deborah repeated, knowing that this was too good to be true, too difficult even if it was; then like a shot from out of the blue she remembered where they were, and hastily shook her head, releasing the door from her tight grasp so that she could step back and wave Martin in, “Hold on, get in here.” Martin smiled gratefully, but Deborah only let him walk as far as it took her to slam the door, before she whirled on him, raised her hands, and said as calmly as she could, “Martin, you explain to me, right now, what is going on.”

“I want you back.” Martin stated decisively, gazing into Deborah’s eyes with such an intensity that she pursed her lips to stop herself from arguing there and then, and tore her eyes from his, nonetheless hanging on his every word, “What I mean to say is, that I-I-I, I’d like you to take me back, because i-it’s you I want to be with.”

“I don’t understand.” Deborah replied shortly, shaking her head intermittently as she forced herself to batten down the roaring in her ears and raise her head to hold his gaze; they’d been through this, she had been suffering for his sake, and now he…he was…“Martin-”

“There’s nothing _to_ understand.” Martin retorted, unable to quite raise a smile as he seemed to realise that whatever he was trying to do wasn’t going according to plan, but still gazing imploringly at her, hands rising and falling at his sides, “I love you, and I want to be with _you_ – no one else, just you.”

It was too much, too much all at once; especially now that Deborah had come to accept in some small way that way that things were going to be from now on.

“Hold on though.” Deborah stopped him, raising her palms to him before wrapping her arms across her chest, not daring to step closer to him without doing something drastic; there he was, the bloody man that she could either pounce on or strangle at a moment’s notice, exactly the way that she loved him, declaring his love all over again, “When did you decide this?”

“Today.” Martin answered swiftly, his chin pointed upwards imperceptibly, as if he were willing to defend his proud decision at a moment’s notice; it was the most put together that Deborah had seen him in months.

“Today?” Deborah repeated, quirking an eyebrow at him as her posture shifted from defensive to deprecating in moments; for god’s sake, the man was ridiculous, in every way.

Only Martin could make a romantic gesture into such an annoying spectacle, standing there so proudly in her sitting room; that alone was enough to help Deborah’s mind take control and rebel against the flurry taking place beneath her skin wherever his eyes touched, and remember why she absolutely couldn’t let it get to her.

“Yes, today.” Martin explained, taking a deep breath as if he were steeling herself; like a damned seesaw, Deborah was caught again by sympathy for him in the place of defiance, “I came out of that interview, and then…it just hit me, that with everything else that might be changing, with maybe moving, and MJN, a-and-”

“Slowly Martin.” Deborah cut in gently, allowing the tension to leave her shoulders as she moved around him to lean against the back of the sofa; it wasn’t his fault that he was tangling her internal organs, reshuffling the decisions that she had made in the past few weeks, not when what he was saying came with such a heartfelt expression, and words that made the air in her lungs feel ten times lighter, “Just run me through exactly what’s been going through your head.”

“Look, Deborah-” Martin sighed, showing for a split second how tired he really was as he turned to keep his eyes on her; she nodded slightly, allowing him the time to speak, ready to listen instead of argue, “with everything else, the one thing that’s important to me, is _you_. I don’t want to settle for Theresa, or anyone – I-I want _you_. You’re the _one”_

“We broke up Martin.” Deborah remarked simply, not trying to be cruel, simply stating the facts and wincing at the quiver in his lips, and the slight sniffle as Martin inhaled and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck; it would be lovely to just fall back together, but Deborah knew, with a swell of pain through her chest, that it wasn’t worth the agony that they would inevitably put each other through, “We agreed that we didn’t work. Now you think that I’m the one?”

“I am fully convinced that you’re the love of my life.” Martin replied, in the same tone of voice that he used when citing proper procedure, or giving out orders, even though his cheeks turned an even darker shade of scarlet; it was enough to make Deborah want to throw her arms around him for being so beautifully himself, but instead she simply rested more weight on the back of the sofa, deriving strength from the hard edge, “You’re the one person that I love, more than anyone else, and even if I go off somewhere, I’m still going to love you _so much_ , and we shouldn’t have-”

“Martin, I’ve been married twice and have a child with a third man.” Deborah interrupted him, raising her hand; she was almost blown down by another wave of affection when his mouth clamped shut without a second thought, “Are you really going to talk to me about ‘ _the one’_?”

“M-maybe that’s why it didn’t work with them.” Martin suggested hopefully; with a small stumble that suggested he was doubting his movements, Martin came to perch on the other end of the back of the sofa, facing Deborah eagerly and gesticulating as if for a great idea, “Because I’m the one that you’re supposed to be with, l-like we were _meant_ to be together…Deborah, why else would it be so hard for us to stay apart?”

“Because we’re _always_ together!” Deborah exclaimed, rolling her eyes when Martin merely shook his head dismissively; for all the tumult inside of her, it didn’t feel like an argument, it felt like they were bickering over a word game, and that alone was enough to force a flicker of a smile onto the corner of her lips in response to Martin’s own hopeful one, “Martin, what about if you end up going to work for Swiss Air?”

“I might not.” Martin replied primly; he was too much of a stubborn…uh…he didn’t understand at all why Deborah was reluctant to just ‘take him back’. Loving her and wanting to be together wasn’t enough; dammit, all Deborah wanted was to be happy, _for once_ , but that couldn’t work when they had so many _problems-_ this right here being one of them.

“But what if you do?” Deborah demanded, fighting not to grit her teeth at him; she rose from where she leaned and paced a few steps, before turning back to him, throwing her hands into the air either side of her, “What? Do you want to get back together now and then leave me when the time comes? O-or are you going to ask me to go with you? Because I won’t.”

“I’m not expecting you to!” Martin insisted, his forehead wrinkling and his nose scrunching up in indignation; then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, continuing calmly, appealing to her from a different angle, “Deborah – c-can you just listen? Just hear what I have to say.”

“We agreed that we didn’t work, Martin.” Deborah replied, ignoring his request as her arms pulled securely around her chest, keeping her together and ensuring that she didn’t either cry and send him away, or give in to the pounding in her ears emanating from her chest against her judgement, “We talked about this. At no point did we agree that you’d be turning up here to-”

“I shouldn’t have agreed at all.” Martin interjected warily, swallowing hard; his eyes were burning into Deborah’s and she was too thrown by his declaration to say a word, “Please…just listen.”

“I’m listening.” Deborah said after a moment of silence that could have shorn whatever it was that was binding the two of them together, refusing to allow the aching in her chest to cease, or the lurching tug to stop trying to yank her into Martin’s arms; it wouldn’t hurt to hear what he had to say, the treacherous voice in her ear whispered.

It most definitely would hurt to send him away.

“Thank you.” Martin sighed, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; then his nerves seemed to tremble, and his hands wound together over his lap, while he tried to assemble his thoughts, “Okay…I-I’ve been thinking, a-a lot actually. I shouldn’t have ever just _agreed_ to give up on us –that was pathetic of me, and I’m sorry, I am, but I was hurting-”

“ _We_ have problems Martin.” Deborah cut him off sternly, fixing him with a pointed glare; she may have been aching, and pining for him, desperate for him to leave so that she could go back to preparing herself for his absence, but she wouldn’t let him talk about himself like that.

Martin’s expression grew more open, and he blinked in surprise; Deborah tore her eyes from his, and stared sheepishly at the carpet, running her fingers through the loose strands of hair that hung over her face. If only she could stop loving him just enough, it might be easier to let someone other than herself insult him.

“Everyone has problems!” Martin seemed to snap back into action, rising to his feet, but in no way encroaching on her space as he gestured between the two of them, “But we – we love each other. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed – I _know_ that you are the love of my life, I-I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, or ever will again…but I let you go, and that’s the biggest problem between us.”

“You can say that-” Deborah sighed, shaking her head, but Martin cut her off before she could linger too long on the same issue they had been over time and time again.

“Yeah, I can say it; but you don’t believe it.” Martin insisted, grimacing as he lifted a hand to rub over his eyes; Deborah didn’t appreciate the self-deprecating tilt of his lips, but said nothing, “And why should you? I understand now, I really do, which is why I’m here, begging you to give us another chance.” For a moment Martin looked truly miserable as he met her gaze, and Deborah wished that she could have made that better, she really did; but that wasn’t an option, no matter how much sense Martin’s words seemed to be making in the messy tangle of her mind, “I’ve spend the latter part of today thinking about all the things that I could lose if I end up leaving, and I can’t lose _you.”_

“But the point still stands that you might leave.” Deborah remarked weakly; that was the only clear thought that made it through the hastily ravelling and unravelling in her head, and the clamour in her chest. The clammy paws were actually beginning to fade into tentative flutters, and to her despair, the air around her felt as if it were settling, making everything that little bit more light, and a little bit clearer.

“I might not.” Martin said again, determinedly; nope, not light at all, cold and harsh. This was a bad idea; everything that he was making Deborah begin to consider was a bad idea, and she couldn’t let herself be lured into it.

“Stop, stop it.” Deborah instructed, pulling her arms more tightly around her chest; it was beginning to feel horrible standing in the middle of room, like balancing at the top of a precariously rocking pole, “Let’s take Switzerland out of the equation.”

Martin needed to get it through his head that it wasn’t just him moving away that Deborah was protesting; true, it was a large part of the problem, but that wasn’t the only thing. There was no way that she could see that she herself would end up happy, not like she wanted…but she loved Martin, loved him so much…if he could be happy elsewhere, then surely that was the next best thing?

“Fine.” Martin agreed, nodding humbly; his hands clenched, and he shoved them into his pockets as he spoke, making more and more sense the longer that Deborah listened, “You were right about me always being the one to make the first move, which means that it was my responsibility to fight for our relationship. And I didn’t, and I’m sorry. But I’m here now, and I’m willing to sit down and work through everything that we did wrong, because we’re already both changing-”

“It’s not enough to want change.” Deborah argued, with not nearly enough heat behind her protestation; Martin was beginning to convince her, which was bad, that was so bad, and her body was betraying her, but if she stormed away she was certain that Martin would follow her and try to comfort her and then there would be no stopping the avalanche.

“Well, I think it is.” Martin retorted, so damn sure of himself; he removed his hands from his pockets and opened his palms to the world, shrugging weakly and honestly, smiling a thin, hopeful smile at Deborah, the sort that he _knew_ made her fall for him every time, “So, I don’t want to fight…I-I just want to give us another go.”

Deborah could have said yes; it was on the tip of her tongue, and even the tension between them seemed to fade, as she smiled sadly at Martin, just a quirk of her lips, and blinked hard to bat away the beginnings of tears. He seemed to understand before she even spoke, as his shoulders sagged, and his lip was dragged between his teeth.

“No.” Deborah answered, no embellishment, or debate; it didn’t matter how they felt, she wasn’t going to let them make a mess of ‘another go’.

“Right…okay.” Martin remarked, politely, disappointed, but with no trace of bitterness; he sniffled a little, but nodded, played the brave man, and then pressed his lips together and stepped a little closer, his eyes boring into Deborah’s, “But, j-just so you know, I’m not going to give up.” Deborah quirked an eyebrow, unsure of how else to respond when the moths in her chest were rebelling furiously at her decision, “I-I’m not going to hassle you, or shower you in unwanted gestures…but I’m going to keep trying, just sort of asking every now and again.”

“You think if you ask nicely every now and again I’ll give in and date you?” Deborah inquired, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, as Martin gave her a shy smile; she could have laughed if she hadn’t been so miserable, at how so wonderfully _Martin_ he was being.

“I think you’ll remember how nice it was being in love and together, and maybe…want to be with me?” Martin suggested coyly; oh, and now he was teasing her, feeling awfully confident in himself and his hands went back to his pockets and he swung shyly on his heels.

“You could have been in love and together with someone far nicer than me.” Deborah reminded him, grasping at anything she could to stop him being so charming all of a sudden, and to stop herself from just crumbling and giving in; she stepped around him until Martin was between her and the door.

“You’re perfect.” Martin retorted, shaking his head; well, now he was just being deliberately obtuse, Deborah thought, taking a hold of that irritation, choosing it over all of the other feelings as she wafted him towards the door, grateful that he moved without having to be asked.

“There’s no such thing as a perfect woman, or a perfect man.” Deborah remarked dryly, forcing herself not to smile reflexively at the happy little curl of Martin’s lips; she’d said no and he was still acting like his plans would bear fruit, “Perfect people don’t exist – well, except perhaps perfect idiots.”

“I feel like that might have been aimed at me.” Martin replied, as he turned on his heel, and stumbled backwards into the door; his nose scrunched up as he tried to decipher her meaning, and ran his eyes over Deborah’s face.

“It was a bit.” Deborah admitted, shrugging nonchalantly; this was better, she could deal with this. Let them poke and prod for the rest of their lives if they had to, just god forbid she give in to the tempestuous slurry that burned just beneath her skin; that was more trouble than it was worth, especially as it was currently calculating how easy it would be to press Martin and his smug little face against the door.

“I’m _your_ idiot though.” Martin countered smoothly, as if that might help his case as he smirked down at her; Deborah rolled her eyes, inhaling deeply to replace the air that she had just lost.

“Martin…go home.” She instructed, reaching past him to open the door; it didn’t become any easier to breathe when Martin stepped forwards to allow the door to swing open, and a light breeze to waft in through the space he left being.

“Alright.” Martin sighed; giving her one last nod, he left her flat and disappeared into the dark, presumably towards where he had parked his van. Deborah watched until she couldn’t see him anymore, and resisted the urge to call after him, closing the door and shutting out the night.

She didn’t even make it back to the sofa before she heard a faint tap at the window; cursing the rush of affection at the sound, Deborah rolled her eyes and strode over to the window, pulling back the curtains to find Martin standing sheepishly on the other side.

“Martin, I said go home.” Deborah stated irritably as she pushed the glass open; Martin helped to pull it away from the frame, allowing her to prop herself up on the sill and scold him properly, “Don’t tell me your van’s broken down.”

“No, no…” Martin replied hastily, almost nervously, as he gnawed on his bottom lip and feigned nonchalance, huddling into his coat against the chill, “I just um….I forgot to tell you I loved you when I said goodbye. It was quite an important part of my seduction technique, and it completely slipped my mind.”

“Luckily for you, I had already received the message loud and clear.” Deborah sighed, nonetheless giving in to the flood of warmth that rushed from her chest to the tips of her fingers as she ran her eyes over his wind bitten cheeks; it seemed so much easier to accept that the feelings were there regardless of what she wanted to do, when there was the greater part of a wall between them.

“Oh?” Martin chirped, his eyebrows rising hopefully; he really _wasn’t_ going to give up, and a realisation that made something in Deborah’s stomach turn not entirely unpleasantly, despite her efforts to purse her lips and hold her resolve, “And it’s still a firm no?”

“As firm as a rock.” Deborah replied, nodding firmly, her lips reluctantly curling upwards.

“Oh…you’re sure?” Martin asked again, one eyebrow ducking suspiciously as he made a show of peering at her expression; chances were, the little shit really did think that he could win her over in time.

“Yes, Martin.” Deborah sighed, decidedly not giving in to the thrumming in her chest.

“Okay…I’ll, um…I’ll give it a week or two before I ask again.” Martin informed her, as if he were commenting on the need to book a flight plan; with just as much enthusiasm too, which was somewhat comforting, “You know, j-just sort of, leap out, l-like a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m almost looking forward to it.” Deborah drawled fondly, letting her eyes flutter down his face, taking in the expression for later; she could play this game if he wanted.

“That’s the point.” Martin remarked; then he sighed, and it was tangible, the moment that he stopped playing, and became more serious, speaking honestly to her, “I’m…not doing this to be difficult. I just, no games, I just love you, and now that I’m seeing properly, for the first time in well…ages. I’m not going to give up.”

With that Martin turned his back to her, and made as if to walk away; before she could stop herself, Deborah was caught by a wave of emotion that might have swept her away had her fingers not been clinging to the window sill.

“Martin!” Deborah called, before he could take more than a step; her eyes were wide and desperate, and she couldn’t stand to see him go yet. Oh, dear lord, something he had said had actually gotten through; damn, she could have strangled the sentimental, soppy old romantic nesting in the curve of her ribs.

“Hmmm?” Martin hummed in acknowledgement, looking her up and down as he returned to the window, allowing Deborah to grasp at his sleeve with the tips of her fingers, leaning in away from the cold.

“This isn’t me giving in.” Deborah told him pointing dangerously with the other hand as she rested the one on his arm; she meant it, this didn’t mean a thing, not really, “This isn’t consent for a relationship, and it doesn’t mean I want to get back together. It is what it is, and nothing more.”

“Wha-” Martin couldn’t even get the question from his lips before Deborah leaned through the window and slammed hers against them; what did emerge was more of a stunned squeak that tumbled into a triumphant groan as his hands flew up, one to take a hold of her shoulder, the other to tangle through her hair.

Deborah pushed into the kiss, moving her lips against Martins and fighting not to collapse from the surge of heat that tingled through her chest and up through her hands, as she flattened her palms against his cheeks, allowing him to pull her deeper and more intimately against him as best as he could with the wall between them, shifting to wrap one around the back of his neck while all that she could think about was how much she had missed this, and his mouth against hers, relentless and being held tightly in one place and the kiss inevitably became messy and desperate and they just pushed and pulled against each other.

Then Deborah pulled away, forced herself to break and to breathe, letting her hands linger just as Martin’s did, her fingers tips trailing through his hair and over his cheeks that matched it for colour, while the back of his knuckles brushed against the side of her face and he blinked slowly, bedazzled, back at her; she tried not to imagine that she looked the same, but it was difficult when the few centimetres between them were charged, and she could barely tear her eyes from his.

“I love you too.” Deborah told him, quietly, cherishing how his eyes slipped down to follow the movement of her lips, before trailing up to gaze into hers again; she was sure that she had just done the same thing, “But I don’t want to take you back.”

Martin leaned back, allowing them to disentangle from each other, hands returning to pockets and window sills as they should have been; but his face was split into a wide grin, and Deborah was well aware that she had just ruined any future attempts that she was _going_ to make, to try and convince him that they weren’t ever getting back together.

“We’ll see.” Martin remarked brightly; then, still beaming, he turned and wandered back into the night, until Deborah was sure she could just hear him jumping and hissing in victory.

Well, damn… nearly twelve years sober but she couldn’t stir up enough will power to keep her hands off Martin.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

There was nothing more bewildering than returning from a sun stroked country only to find that Fitton was playing host to torrential rain so thick that the sheets of water plummeting from the sky buffeted GERTI as she neared the ground, and whistled, eerily amplified by the metal shell.

Deborah wasn’t particularly worried, having landed in worse conditions, and even Martin was gritting his teeth and grumbling at the world instead of panicking, but that didn’t make it any less tricky to try and land the damn plane now that his previous calculations regarding the landing were null and void.

Carolyn and Arthur were strapped down in the Cabin, along with the pair of wealthy honeymooners that they had been ferrying around the Caribbean for the better part of the weekend.

 _“Alright chaps, you can come in.”_ Karl told them through the sat-com, his voice crackling slightly with the interference caused by the near flooding of every nook and cranny of the ATC tower, _“Just bear in mind that it’s like an ice rink down here; there’s about an inch of water on the runway.”_

“That’s alright.” Deborah replied cheerfully, exchanging a resigned grimace with Martin, who rolled his eyes as he tapped the metres, pressing his lips together in concentration while he hastily calculated the new angles and speeds that they would need, “I’ve always wanted to try landing in a puddle; what a lovely surprise that there happens to be one big enough.”

 _“Righto.”_ Karl responded, lacking his usual joviality, “ _I’ll have the fire crew stand by then. Fair warning though, they’ve been drinking, so if you could perhaps not crash, that would be great.”_

Martin flicked the sat-com off before Deborah could come back with a decent retort, and she didn’t need telling twice; listening to the instructions given, Deborah made the adjustments that Martin had come up with, and offered her own suggestions where he had perhaps overlooked a detail or two. By the time the plane was aiming at the runway, their arms were darting here and there, forwards, above their heads, across to the other side of the flight-deck, and Deborah was mostly confident that they’d land in a semblance of a straight line.

“Okay, okay, o-okay-” Martin stuttered, as he took the controls in hand and squared his shoulders, turning to Deborah with wide eyes; as surreptitiously as she could, Deborah also slipped her hands around the controls, just in case Martin seized up, not that she suspected he would given his track record with immense pressure, and raised her eyes patiently for him to continue, “We-we’re uh, r-ready to go? You ready to land?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Captain.” Deborah told him, offering a comforting little smirk, even though the feeling wasn’t quite behind it; it seemed to have the desired effect though, as Martin exhaled thoroughly, and began reeling off the instructions needed to make the descent.

The descent that ended up being far more…choppy…than Deborah might have liked, and with far more shouting at each other; GERTI ended up soaring to the very right edge of the runway, despite their efforts, and a sudden gust of wind made it difficult to slow down as they had planned, aided also by the visual impairment caused by the downpour. On a more positive note, the shouting was less that of anger or frustration, and more the frantic yelling that could often be heard over board games, or similarly stressful events where fond despair could be found in bucket loads.

“No, no, no, go there!”

“I’m _going_ there _,_ stop pressing _that_!”

“Will you just sit still and let me-”

“No! Just- _argh_!”

When GERTI finally hit the tarmac, sending the both of them lurching forwards, Deborah kept her hands on the controls, and her entire posture clenched and Martin did the same beside her, while an ear-splitting screech rang through the air, and outside of the window the world seemed to spin, adding to the tilting, whirling sensation inside the flight-deck. Then with another jerk, the movement ceased with a thud, and Deborah’s ears continued to ring as the blood pounded through her hands where they were clenched painfully.

“Did we live?” Deborah winced, rolling her shoulders back and wincing as a shrill beeping began to emanate from the control panel; she didn’t move too much, but instead stared at the ever so slightly tilted line that marked the horizon of the runway.

“I-I think so.” Martin replied shakily, audibly breathing at twice the normal pace; without warning, Deborah felt his hand flop down onto hers, and she didn’t think twice about allowing him to wind his fingers through hers, relishing the solidity of his bony hand as he grasped at her, “Y-you feel solid, so I’m going to assume that we’re fine.”

 _“Good job pilots.”_ Karl’s voice startled the both of them, and as the tension left Deborah’s limbs, and he finally let out the breath that she had been holding to look around the flight-deck, she saw that Martin was doing the same, gnawing on his bottom lip and retracting his hand from hers to sort out the warnings, “ _My only criticism would be that you’re facing the wrong way. Other than that, nice execution, and I’m giving you eight out of ten.”_

“Thank you Karl.” Martin answered wanly, as he slapped down the last intermittent screech, only to slump back in his seat, and turn his head to acknowledge that Deborah was watching his every move.

Deborah wasn’t sure what happened, but one moment she was running her eyes over Martin’s face, his sheepishly pinched expression and his almost jittering blue eyes, caught in that familiar feeling of not quite being on the same wavelength, but of complete togetherness, like a warm balloon inflating in her chest, and the next she was doubled over with laughter, listening to her own giggles mix with Martin’s warm, nearly hysterical chuckles as from the corner of her eyes she could see him folding and dropping his head into his hands.

As she sat back in her seat, taking comfort from the hard padding pressed against her back, Deborah brought her laughter under control, and turned to meet Martin’s gaze as he sighed and did the same; she couldn’t quite keep the warm smile from pulling at her lips, but that was okay, as Martin’s face was glowing.

There wasn’t a chance to say what was on the tip of her tongue, as the flight-deck door clanged open, and Carolyn appeared in the space left behind, ruffled but set in a stubborn glare; she took one look at the two of them, seeing that they were both fine, and groaned, rolling her eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Carolyn demanded, gesturing towards the rain blurred window that still showed the wrong end of the runway and a sizeable patch of grass, “I pay you to fly my _plane_ , not a fairground ride!”

One glance was all it took for Deborah and Martin to dissolve into even more peals of laughter, that only increased at the sound of Carolyn’s huff and the sound of her storming away to look after the passengers.

oOoOoOo

It was still trickling outside two days later, but that was no matter, as they all had the day off, and Deborah could stay indoors if she pleased; it would have been a comfortable use of her time, lounging about, if she hadn’t been quite so bored by the lack of anything even slightly productive to do.

Worst of all, the only thing that she could think of to fill her time was to text Martin; Deborah had always texted him when she was bored, or wanted to chat, at least since they had been friends, which in the grand scheme of things was a decent chunk of her life. It was just something they did…kept in contact, any day, any time, any subject matter. Today, he was on a van job, and so the only way that she _could_ contact him was through her phone.

Behaving like that had been difficult when they had first split up, and then throughout that awkward period when Martin had been elsewhere with Theresa and interviews…now, in recent weeks, was the first time that Deborah had felt that constant tepid glow that came with simply being friends with Martin, best friends, and being able to drop into his company whenever she pleased.

Except now…with Martin rekindling his efforts to convince her to take him back, the glow was still there, but things that might have been acceptable between friends started to have…implications…that Deborah didn’t want him to receive.

Ever since she had discovered Icarus, Deborah had texted Martin to find out how his trip was going, and to take his mind off of the labour; it had seemed like a normal, friendly thing to do. It was only now that she was watching her behaviour and making sure not to overstep lines, that Deborah realised that perhaps friends, even best friends, didn’t make such an effort. If anything, the two of them had been acting like a couple long before she had even admitted to herself that that roaring in her chest _was_ the desire to kiss him.

There was little chance that she would stop loving Martin, and Deborah was sure (thanks to his may efforts) that he loved her, and that fact was underlying their every interaction, no matter how much she refused to even consider resurrecting their relationship. The past few weeks had been wonderful; for the first time in so long, Deborah and Martin were friends without the impediments of lies and prevarication, and that was freeing.

Sure, Martin was keeping true on his promise to leap out every now and then without hassling her, but it was done so carefully, with nice sizeable gaps between each attempt, that Deborah could pretend that things were perfect between them until she had to politely turn him down, and then wait for the next one.

It had been five days after he turned up and her door before Martin caught her in the hotel in Vancouver and asked her to let him take her on a date, to which she had scoffed and batted him away, but conceded to go and people watch in the bar with him. Before and after that, Martin had behaved himself just as he had promised, gracefully accepting her decision, being the perfect friend to her for another four days, before popping up from the hold when she was doing the walk around to ask her if she’d take him back, sans offer of a date this time.

As much as Deborah wanted to text Martin and occupy herself, she was well aware that all it would do was encourage him; as much as she wanted to just say yes, there was still a chance that Swiss Air would call him back, and a certainty that if she _did_ take him back, then they would fight, and be unhappy all over again. Deborah didn’t know _how_ she knew that, there was just a nagging in her gut that promised there would be no happy ending for them.

But she was still bored, and still sprawled on her sofa, and Deborah still missed Martin even though she had seen him only days before; maybe it wouldn’t hurt to call him? No, that was obvious, there was no way to make a phone-call seem nonchalant

However…Martin had said that his job today involved ferrying someone’s goods back and forth within Fitton, and Deborah knew that when he was doing a job within the confines of their little town, Martin always stopped for a soft drink at the same time, in the same pub near the town centre. He didn’t buy food, because he was stubborn and would just eat a slightly larger dinner at home.

Based on that knowledge, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine that a friend, devoid of any of the obligations of a relationship, might take pity on their other friend and happen to turn up at the same pub, armed with a snack; after all, everyone needed to eat.

No, Martin would see through that immediately, Deborah scolded herself…or…there was no reason that Martin couldn’t be deluding himself, if Deborah made sure to impress upon him that her act was one of charity, and not a desire to see him, or to look after him. Any ideas that he go then were entirely his own fault.

oOoOoOo

Just as Deborah had expected, when she entered the pub at ten minutes past noon, Martin was perched on a bar stool in jeans and a t-shirt, his coat hanging open, sipping at an orange juice with his head ducked while he fingered through a newspaper that was laid open atop the bar. The man was as reliable as clockwork.

To her immense pleasure, Martin didn’t look up as she approached him, which gave Deborah the opportunity to sidle up to him and shift her handbag over her shoulder as she hooked her hands behind her back, plastered on a winning smile, and then tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

Martin’s head snapped up as he looked around for the offender, but his movements slowed, a warm smile crept onto his lips as his eyes softened in tandem to the flush of his cheeks when he realised who he was looking at; now, if that wasn’t the expression of a man happy to see her then Deborah didn’t know what was.

“Hello You.” Deborah drawled brightly, grinning salaciously at him as Martin rose to his feet, looking her up and down as if checking that she were actually there; before she could react, he had stepped towards her and pulled her into a one armed embrace, briefly squeezing his arm around her waist and forcing her (not that she really fought) to wrap her arms around his shoulders before he pulled away.

“ _Hello_ …” Martin replied, positively beaming at her as his voice pitched somewhere between pleasant surprise and absolute pleasure; still glowing enough to set off the red in his hair, Martin rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and inspected Deborah in such a way that made her heart lurch, and hot flutters tear through her chest, despite her refusal to acknowledge them, “What are you doing here?”

“I was out and about, fancied a break.” Deborah remarked nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders and cocking her head to the side, taking care to glance carelessly about the pub at the other punters; even if he was going to see through her act, she couldn’t allow him to think that his little plan was working. She had the upper hand.

“In a pub?” Martin inquired, smirking slightly as his eyebrows dipped sarcastically; he hummed and pursed his lips as Deborah broke his eye contact, playfully leaning a little closer to her as he clasped his hands together in front of him, “My pub that I go to every lunchtime that I’m on a van job in Fitton?”

“Oh, you’ve got me.” Deborah exclaimed dramatically, rolling her eyes and pressing her hands over her chest; as Martin scoffed through his nose, she reached around to dip into her bag, and pull out a plastic take-away box that she had filled with sandwiches, made just the way Martin liked them, “I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you a little midday snack.”

“Really? Wow…thank you…” Martin grinned some more as he took the box from her, passing it from hand to hand as if touched by the gesture; the way that he was looking at her, gooey eyed, was nice, and Deborah could only smile back at him until his expression shifted, and he narrowed his eyes fondly at her, “Hold on. If that was actually why you were here you’d have said it last.” he noted; Martin rocked back on his heels and asked suspiciously, “How’s your day been?”

“So boring!” Deborah groaned, rolling her head back in exasperation before she sighed and pouted at him; this was mostly the truth, and as close to honesty as she was willing to get without letting him know the exact reason for her presence, “I need you to entertain me.”

“I _see_.” Martin replied, nodding smugly, probably imagining all the ways that she had been pining for him since their last flight; he glanced around them before pointing towards a table in the corner of the pub, tucked away from the bar and the door, “Let’s go over here.”

Deborah followed Martin over to the table, and the next few minutes were spent fussing over the food that she had brought, with Martin aw-ing over how good it tasted, and Deborah giving in to his insistence that she eat to, though she took the smallest piece and proceeded to pick at it while trying not to think too hard on how good it felt to have Martin snatching peeks at her, making no effort to hide the smile that refused to fade from his face. It was lovely, and it had been a long, _long_ time since the two of them had just sat down and been in each other’s company.

“So…” Deborah broke the silence that was beginning to fall between them, stretching her arms and folding them on the table top, leaning forwards conspiratorially; so long as they kept it jovial and pleasant, there was no need for any awkwardness to emerge, “how has _your_ day been?”

“Good, um…” Martin trailed off and blew through pursed lips as he lowered the hand that had been raising part of a sandwich to his lips, and shrugged nonchalantly; he had always been sparse when talking about Icarus, but seemed to be encouraged somewhat by his good mood, “yeah, it’s been fine.”

“Yes?” Deborah pushed, quirking an eyebrow, and not entirely feigning interest; she had no particular fascination with the intricacies of carting around furniture, but she _did_ want to listen to Martin talk about anything, something that she had only just been able to do in recent weeks thanks to their renewed proximity.

“Well, i-it’s a job.” Martin continued, shrugging and clearing his throat awkwardly, taking then losing eye contact as he bumbled; Deborah mused that perhaps it wasn’t helping him to have her gazing indulgently at him, blinking slowly, but couldn’t bring herself to stop, “I don’t know, it’s uh…the people have been polite, the furniture is heavy…that’s it-”

“Are you sure that’s all?” Deborah inquired, fluttering her eyelashes at him; she was rather enjoying this, letting her warm smile settle into place as if it were meant to be there indefinitely, “Nothing fun to tell me?”

“Apart from this?” Martin retorted, waving his hand between the two of them, the contented grin sneaking back without his notice, joined by a lower register in his voice; all that Deborah could report was the pleasant rippling through her chest that made the tips of her fingers tingle, “No…everything’s been dull and boring and I’m already considering clawing my eyes out for some sort of entertainment.”

“Hmmm.” Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, quirking her eyebrows seriously and smirking as she extended her hand to push the remainders of the sandwiches towards him, “Flying blind might be a challenge, but I suppose if we practiced, we could come up with some sort of system.”

“Like blind man’s bluff.” Martin agreed brightly, apparently sufficiently distracted enough now to pluck the food from the table and consume it without his usual worry; he grinned even wider as he verified, “With you telling me which way to turn?”

“Oh, of course.” “Deborah remarked wryly, feeling her own smile increase at the sight of the charming little pinch of Martin’s features as he indulged in a bit of rule-breaking fantasy and attempted a joke; she had always loved him the most when they were like this, “Up a bit, down a bit, don’t press that, oh dear, now we’re crashing.”

That had Martin releasing a hearty chuckle which inevitably dissolved into a giggle, just as Deborah found herself unable to stop the same from happening to, lulled into it by the precious tickling in her throat that pulled the sound right from her chest.

“Yeah…I can’t see the CAA being too happy with that either.” Martin giggled, his eyes glittering as he beamed at Deborah, leaning back comfortably in his seat; it was a lovely sight, that Deborah was sure had her blushing despite her best efforts, “I’d have to wear sunglasses on every flight just to stop them from noticing”

“I’m game if you are.” Deborah drawled salaciously, feeding off of the tail end of the marvellous buzz that laughter made bubble up inside of her; it was hard to look away from Martin as he chuckled again and drew his bottom lip between his teeth, as an edge of coyness slipped into his expression, and he seemed to narrow his sights onto her and her alone.

But she did look away, and for a while they talked with the energy of a wall slowly crumbling in various directions, eventually lapsing into another strained quiet; it was nice to be with him, but Deborah was also aware that the longer she stayed, the more difficult it would become to stop herself from simply staring and nodding and enjoying the illusion of togetherness.

“You know, if you’re _really_ bored, then y-you could help me with the rest of the job.” Martin suggested after a while, clearing his throat and biting down on his bottom lip as he stared at the now empty glass that he held between his palms, “It’s only a few shelves now, so, you wouldn’t even need to lift anything heavy. I-I mean if you want to.”

A few months before, and Deborah might have taken him up on the offer; now, she might have taken him up on the offer, mildly attracted by the chance to spend the rest of the day in Martin’s company. Except, just like when a cloud passes over the sun and blocks out the heat, Deborah found herself frozen at Martin’s request, as it hit her that this was exactly what she was rebelling against; just because the rest of her was longing to follow him anywhere, didn’t mean that her mind was going to obey, no matter how much it made her want to grit her teeth.

“Um…it’s a nice offer, but I think I’ll pass.” Deborah replied, her voice coming out far too politely for her liking, as she pulled her bag onto her lap, the universal sign for a hasty exit; the light behind Martin’s eyes seemed to flicker, and his smile fell as he nodded quickly, “This was nice, but, um…I should leave you to it.”

“Sure…thanks for this, this was, it was good of you.” Martin remarked hastily, clumsily extracting himself from behind the table as Deborah drearily rose to her feet, standing back and waiting for him to brush down his clothes and straighten his coat before he turned back to her, “You’re um…”

“I’m what?” Deborah asked when Martin didn’t finish his sentence; she knew that she should just leave it, but somehow she still managed to clutch her bag in one hand and blink nervously up at him, waiting for an answer that she shouldn’t have needed to hear.

“It doesn’t matter.” Martin muttered quickly, shaking his head and plastering on a twisted smile that couldn’t have fooled the simplest of minds; immediately, any lightness in Deborah’s mood evaporated, and was replaced by a clagging cloud of regretful resignation, “I should get going.”

“Yeah…” Deborah agreed, trying not to grimace as she nodded and pulled her arms over her chest; it shouldn’t have been so easy for them to just ruin things so quickly, not when the moment before had been so pleasant, and good, and as close to happy as they got nowadays.

They walked side by side from the pub, not really speaking to each other, caught in what seemed like an endless loop of awkward quiet followed by the urge to speak, sideways glances and a lapse back into silence when they were caught; Deborah wasn’t sure how she was feeling, or even if she was feeling, about the tickling at the back of her neck that made her suspect that Martin’s eyes were cutting trails over her face. Whenever she looked, his eyes flickered away, but the tentative smile lingered somewhat, as if he had been thinking something pleasant; Deborah didn’t have the gall to try and tease it out of him.

When they reached the side of Martin’s van, which Deborah had parked next to the moment that she had seen it in the car park, she turned to say something, to make some sort of harried farewell, but was stopped in her tracks as Martin darted down and pressed his lips to hers.

It wasn’t a hurried or a particularly forceful kiss, just a light gesture, gentle, with Martin lacing the tip of his fingers through her hair and stroking the back of his knuckles down her cheek, but he lingered, and Deborah was so thrown by the rush of affection and longing that flooded her chest, that all she could do to stop from melting was to kiss back, as her hands moved of their own will to drift past his chest and over his shoulders, gripping lightly as her mind was drowned in thoughts of Martin and closeness and just pressing her lips back against his.

But her mind caught up with the rest of her, and Deborah broke away from the kiss, placing her hands flat on Martin’s chest and leaning back; he leaned away from her without a single question or indignant retort, and his hands even hovered a few inches away from where they had been caressing as Martin’s eyes searched hers beneath imploringly dipped eyebrows.

“Martin, I said no.” Deborah sighed, adding a little pressure behind her hands before Martin nodded quickly and stepped back, allowing her to drop them; even though his sad little pout and the sag of her shoulders filled her with the irrational desire to apologise to him, Deborah inhaled sharply and stood by her principles, “I meant it.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin replied swiftly, shaking his head and visibly steeling himself, moving himself as if to pace, keeping a distance between them; then his expression pinched and he sagged even more if possible as he turned to meet Deborah’s eye, his tone more annoyed at himself than at her, “It’s just sometimes, it’s almost like you’re saying yes. I’m sorry, I’ll just-”

“Hold on, Martin.” Deborah instructed, lurching forwards and grabbing at his elbow when Martin started to turn and walk away; now _she_ felt bad for crushing him when all he was doing was with good intentions, because he cared too much and didn’t understand why it was better this way, “Stop saying sorry, I don’t _mind_. It’s sweet of you.”

“That’s why I keep trying.” Martin sighed, shrugging helplessly and letting his arms flop at his sides; Deborah didn’t know how to fix the dreary edge to his eternal hopefulness, and could only force herself to ignore the wad at the back of her throat, “Because you actually seem to want me to.”

“I don’t - ”  Deborah tried to retort, but caught herself, pursing her lips as she tried to think of the best way to let him down; except, Martin was watching her, red cheeked, waiting rapt with attention for her to tell him the truth, so she did just that, accepting the prickle of guilt that settled on her shoulders as she wound her arms over her chest and stepped back to lean against the van, “Martin, I love you, of course I want to…be close to you.”

That was the truth; god, Deborah longed to just give in and be with him, to just collapse into Martin and enjoy being together properly, but there were a thousand and one reasons why practically, that was a bad idea.

“But the constant asking and trying to kiss you bothers you.” Martin remarked, grimacing as he nodded, grasping the wrong end of the stick as always; well, part of Deborah wished that he would stop trying, but the other part…Martin wouldn’t be Martin if he wasn’t pedantic and stubborn and ever gave up.

“No, it doesn’t bother me, it’s nice.” Deborah insisted, stopping herself before she could reach out and take his hand; Martin’s eyes on her incited the fluttering in her chest, which was enough to remind her of what she was supposed to be doing, for their own good, “But I’m making a rational decision here, to not let us be in a relationship, and…and _that_ …it doesn’t help.”

This was progression, but not in the direction that either of them wanted to go, if the churning in her guts, or the crinkling of the bridge of Martin’s nose were any indication of the effect that it was having.

“Deborah, you want to be with me.” Martin replied matter-of-factly, but she didn’t think for a moment that he was pushing, simply stating what he felt to be true; Deborah couldn’t fault him for that, nor the faint frown that marred his features, making the lovely flush die down, “What’s the point in denying that?”

“I’m not denying that.” Deborah said softly, taking care to look Martin in the eye as he shifted uncomfortably; the arms around her chest kept her from doing the same, “I’m simply saying no, and I want you to respect that.”

“I do respect that, that’s why I’m _asking_ instead of just taking or throwing myself at you.” Martin told her, his eyes widening imploringly, gesticulating in the same way that he did when he was insisting that they should do things by the book instead of improvising, “That, just now…” he waved a hand between them, the blush returning momentarily to his cheeks when he saw Deborah glance away, then back at him, “I’m sorry, I’m just getting a lot of mixed messages.”

“That’s because the messages _are_ mixed.” Deborah insisted, pressing her lips together tightly and inwardly groaning as she tried to make him understand; she pushed a hand through her hair as she once again went to step towards him and close the gap, but held back, not that Martin didn’t notice the movement, “Martin, no matter what messages I send you, or how positively I might respond to you sweeping down and kissing me…I _need_ you to understand that my answer will always be no, even if my willpower breaks down.”

“So even if you kiss me back, that’s still a no?” Martin inquired, raising an eyebrow tentatively as he swung on his heel, holding back from closing the gap for her, as he had been about to do, instead digging his hands into his pockets.

“Yes, because you could kiss me one day, and I might just not stop you, and I still won’t want to be in a relationship with you. “ Deborah explained, praying that she didn’t sound as weak and desperate as she thought that she did as she blinked up at Martin; this was tantamount to revealing her kryptonite, presenting her weaker facets in a way that she never had before.

But the lying and prevaricating had ruined so much in her life, and even though it made Deborah feel as if she were choking on a hard lump in her throat, she couldn’t let what she and Martin had crumble beyond recognition; Martin could be trusted, she _did_ trust him, more than anyone in the world save perhaps Arthur…which made it that much harder to force a wedge between them.

“Why?” Martin asked, cocking his head to the side; the pang of dejection was almost tangible in a cloud around him, filling the space between his van and her car.

“Because I…I…”  Deborah wasn’t sure what she could say, and gaped for a moment before clamping her mouth shut and shrugging helplessly, extracting her arms to extend into the air either side of her; she wanted to be honest, but when asked to vocalise…there were so many excuses for not taking him back, but there was no way to elucidate the aching pang in her chest that longed to give in, but was deathly afraid of failure.

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Martin remarked wryly, running a hand over the back of his neck as he frowned dejectedly; no, that wasn’t what she wanted him to be feeling, not at all, “But, I-I’m still going to ask every now and again, just in case you change your mind.”

“Sure.” Deborah agreed quietly, attempting a wan, wobbly smile as Martin blushed bashfully; she cursed her lack of willpower, but couldn’t stand the idea of Martin ever stopping, especially now that he had made his mind up, even though she wouldn’t say yes…shouldn’t ever say yes, for their own sakes, “One can never have too many reminders that they’re…”

“Loved?” Martin concluded for her, before Deborah could flounder; his faint smile began to lift into an almost imperceptible smirk, and Deborah felt the flutters in her chest, as if they were dragging her down instead of lifting her up, apparently aware that her brain was rebelling against the rest of her.

“Yes. Exactly.” Deborah nodded, swallowing back anything that she might have said; it was only then that she realised she had been pressing back against his van, so leaned away from it, adding hastily, pandering to the ache in her chest, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s your decision.” Martin assured her, batting a hand through the air; then he paused, and drew his bottom lip through his teeth, cheeks going ever redder as he looked into her eyes, “Can I…could I…just once more?” he motioned towards her, and Deborah realised what he was implying with a rush of warm affection, and a little trepidation regarding her own resolve, “It’s just – I might not get to do it again for a while.”

She should have said no; Deborah _knew_ that giving in would only make it harder when he either left, or things fell apart again, but it was too alluring an offer for her to turn down.

“Okay.” Deborah breathed, just as Martin’s expression began to fell, and he turned as if to walk past her  and towards the front of the van; as his eyes traced over her face, Deborah was nearly bowled over by the shivers that rushed through her veins, letting her know that whatever she wanted logically, there was no way her psyche was going to let her turn back now.

“Really?” Martin replied, eyes widening in surprise; having seen how determined he had been the past few weeks, Deborah was a little surprised herself at the shock that he was exuding, as if even a shred of success was unheard of.

“Yes, but only one.” Deborah told him, taking a deep breath and adopting a more authoritative pose, pointing confidently up at him despite the whirring in her guts; the smirk on Martin’s face was enough to make one creep faintly onto her own lips, “That’s it.”

Martin didn’t need any more confirmation before he lurched towards her, and before Deborah could fully register what was happening, she was being swept up by a wonderful rush of heat that spread through every pore and roared in her chest, as Martin’s lips crashed into hers and his arms wrapped around her and they thudded back into the side of the van, her arms around his shoulders, both sets of hands moving as Martin kissed her harder and deeper and the chasteness of before was replaced by a determination that left barely a scrap of air between the two of them.

It was perfect, and brilliant, and Deborah could have tumbled a hundred-fold times into the pleasant void that was Martin and the sensation of his hair, his shoulders, his back, beneath her hands, his hands grasping at every inch of her that wasn’t already tight against him or the cold side of the van.

Then Martin tried to pull away, but Deborah didn’t let him, tugging him back to her the moment she felt his lips closing and leaving hers; then they were back where they were supposed to be, wrapped in each other, little noises that Deborah couldn’t quite place rumbling through one or both of their chests, as part of her mind remarked that this was the stupidest place they had ever done anything, and she just kept kissing him over and over and longer and more intense, and if she didn’t stop running her hands up and over his chest, she’d be tearing Martin’s shirt from him, but she couldn’t care to stop herself.

“Stop…” Martin broke away, barely, leaning his head where she couldn’t reach it, though he was still hot and flushed against her, holding her close, his chest heaving in time with hers as he ran his eyes over her face, and his tongue darted out from between his lips.

“But-” Deborah started breathily, inhaling and exhaling at a heightened pace, head whirling and barely able to think straight, unable to work out why he was telling her to stop when this is what he had wanted the whole time.

“You said one, and I’m respecting that.” Martin explained, and he slowly but surely loosened his hold on her, slipping his hands away to step back, leaving Deborah to slump back against the van, watching him straighten his coat with wide eyes, “Your willpower might not be up to scratch, but I can hold back if you want me to.”

Oh…Deborah could have kissed him all over again, and just that thought made little cartwheels flitter through the messy wash of mixed emotions that were spinning through her; as perfect as it felt now, she would regret leading him on, indulging him, against all of her protestations. There was a reason she didn’t want them to get tangled up again, and even though she couldn’t articulate it, Martin was doing the decent thing, and respecting that.

Just one more reason to add to the list of rationalities that were piling up against her decision; she’d ignore them all if she had to.

“Thank you.” Deborah replied softly, tugging her arms around her chest and plastering on a grateful smile, trying not to look too soppy, not that Martin would have noticed, as he was scuffing his feet and watching the dust pile up on the ground; she couldn’t push it, she reminded herself, he might be leaving soon, if that offer ever came through, “I don’t deserve you…you should find someone who’s decent and kind instead.”

“I think you’re fine.” Martin retorted, sounding only a little regretful as he lifted his head and met her gaze; it was impossible to doubt his sincerity, and Deborah didn’t particularly want to.

Then nothing; with only the minimal amount of fuss and farewells, Martin made his way to the driver’s seat of his van, and Deborah slipped into her car, the both of them lingering and exchanging tentative glances as they said goodbye, and then headed their separate ways.

With things the way that they were, there was little else that they could do; Deborah could move on and go home to wallow in her misery, or she could beg Martin to come back.

The latter wasn’t an option at all.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

It had been a month and a half, or near enough, since Martin had attended the interview in Yverdon-Les-Bains, and Deborah had yet to hear a single word about it; Martin was unusually quiet about it, and simply shrugged and smiled and moved the conversation onto safer grounds whenever it was brought up, so she had eventually stopped asking, if only to make him feel better.

Deborah could recognise Martin’s defensive and avoidant techniques anywhere, and for once was prepared not to try and tease him back into a good mood, as the subject matter happened to be one that upset _her_ as well as him. But, contrary to the mantra that ‘no news is good news’, she was well aware that the longer the gaps in communication, the lesser the chance that Martin was going to be accepted by Swiss Air.

Which meant that now, the chances of him leaving were slim to none; an unpleasant weight off of Deborah’s chest on the one hand, and a troubling realisation on the other. Now that the threat of Martin’s absence no longer hung over her, her resolve to veer away from an actual relationship was deteriorating, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to stop it.

Of course, there were other reasons, a few that she couldn’t even identify herself, but now that she was almost certain she wouldn’t have to say goodbye to him for his own good, Deborah couldn’t help thinking that there was nothing wrong with being happy, just for a while, just because the both of them were longing for it. They might break down again, later, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t relish _now,_ did it?

There was no doubt about whether Martin was still interested, as even though he had dulled down his efforts since their run in at the pub in Fitton, he still hadn’t given up; there were no more gestures or attempts to pop out of nowhere and catch her by surprise, which only helped to make Deborah’s resolve weaken even more.

“Post Take-off checks complete?” Martin had asked as they had made it into the air on a flight to Montreal, flicking the switches and leaning over just enough that he could flick his eyes over what Deborah was doing.

“Yes Captain.” Deborah had replied cheerfully, in one of the rare good moods that had been returning like intermittent summer rain over the past few weeks; she had smiled fleetingly as she leaned back in her seat and hooked one ankle over the other, getting comfortable, “And clear skies all the way, so I plan to sit back and not touch a thing while you dutifully fulfil your role as Captain and entertain me.”

“Oh, of course, because that’s what I’m here for.” Martin had retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes and raising a hand to push his hat ever so slightly lower on his head; after a few moments in which Deborah smiled and batted her eyelashes playfully at him, Martin dragged his bottom lip through his teeth and asked, “On a lighter note…would you mind, I-uh, I mean, would you like, to consider taking me back as your boyfriend and or partner? Maybe? If you’re feeling up to it?”

“Wow…you asked so nicely.” Deborah had drawled, unable to keep her lips from curling upwards as a fluttering warmth spread through her chest and lit up her expression, and she turned to find that Martin was looking about the same, shy but in a good mood; by that point she couldn’t feel annoyed or pressured, and wanted desperately to say yes, even as her resolve began to fade, “But I’m afraid my answer is still no.”

“Oh, okay.” Martin had sighed, trailing his gaze once more over her face, his expression filled with nothing but fondness and contentedness; he turned back to the control panel without another word, and left it at that.

Deborah knew that he was going to ask again at some point, but then, she had simply proposed a new game, and the rest of the flight had passed peacefully, with a minimal amount of fuss being caused when Arthur arrived to try and convince them that they should ambush (in a friendly way) their passenger, who happened to be a journalist, and get her to write an article about MJN.

Today though, Deborah was still in a good mood, having sat through a pleasant flight in which they only had cargo to contend with, and Arthur milling around in the jump-seat, trying to guess what it was that Martin had written on a post-it and stuck to his head. He had been bright enough to guess straight away that Martin’s ‘thing’ was something to do with aviation, but after that, even with Deborah’s prompting, he still hadn’t been able to guess which not-so-famous historical figure Martin had elected.

Martin had insisted that he had won as a result, and as Arthur bumbled around in the Galley, Deborah had argued that no, the point was to pick someone guess-able, and the fact that Arthur could never have guessed meant that he was disqualified. 

That particular debate had ended with Martin chuckling deviously as he held Deborah’s hat away from her, having ‘confiscated’ it on the basis that he believed the hats were the most important parts of their jobs, and Deborah giggling faintly, unable to hinder the smile on her face or the warmth in her chest as she gazed affectionately across at Martin’s antics, obediently doing as he asked as if in a trance while he sorted out the landing with Karl.

It was days like this that reminded Deborah why she had ever fallen for Martin in the first place, despite her misgivings; having fun with Martin was the best feeling in her world at the moment…and just like that, cradled by the knowledge of how much she loved him, even more than that, any decision that she had made might not have existed for how quickly it slipped through her fingers.

So once they had landed, and Martin set about giving Arthur instructions regarding getting out and sorting the cargo, Deborah stayed where she was, sitting back in her seat, her turned so that her cheek could lie against the padding, watching in silence as he moved here and there, just enjoying watching Martin be bossy and a little pedantic when Arthur suggested that he do things a ‘better’ way.

Then the flight-deck door clanged shut, and they were alone; Martin sagged back into his seat, letting his hands flop down to hang over the arms of his seat as he groaned contentedly and stretched out a bit like a tucked in cat relishing the afternoon sun. Seeing her chance, acting on an impulse that had been itching for hours now, Deborah turned her head away to run her eyes over the controls as they glinted in the light, and felt her limbs stiffen with tension as she picked anxiously at the loose threads on the arms of her seat.

“Martin?” Deborah announced her intentions tentatively, making sure to keep the corner of her eyes on Martin, whilst maintaining steady and calm breaths as her lungs seemed to clench and unclench in trepidation.

“Hmmm?” Martin responded with a rumbling hum, turning to face her, brushing the back of his head against his seat in such a way that it made his hat tip and tilt atop his neatly piled ginger hair; the light in his eyes was innocent and unassuming, which was enough to spur Deborah on, though not enough to make her hold his gaze for longer than a second.

“You um…you know that thing, that you’ve been…bothering me about?” Deborah inquired, aiming for nonchalance, curling a careless hand through the air and swallowing away the dizzy fluttering in her chest; beside her, she almost _felt_ Martin shifting and straightening and paying attention, “Is the offer still open?”

“Yeah…” Martin replied, his voice so breathy and filled with what might have been wonder, that it had Deborah turning to look him over properly; she had to catch her breath as she took in the way that he was turned almost all the way in his seat, gripping the arm, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

“Could I, ahem, could I perhaps…” Deborah cut herself off, shaking her head and pursing her lips in personal disdain; not that Martin was hindered, his expression hopeful, which was enough to make it harder to breathe, but also put a flicker of determination in her guts, “would you mind terribly if I wanted to…um…to take you up on it?”

“Y-y-you, you want me back?” Martin asked, as if he could barely believe his ears; he made no move closer, or further, and Deborah was grateful for his stunned restraint, as it allowed the whirling inside of her to settle somewhat, “You actually-”

“Yes…” Deborah replied faintly, unable to hide the small, bashful smile that crept unbidden onto her lips as Martin’s face lit up, and his cheeks filled with a shining blush; her eyes flickered down to trace the threads that she was pulling at all the more urgently, “if you’ll still have me.”

“I-I-I will, I mean, I-I-I do!” Martin exclaimed, letting out what sounded like a long held breath as a reedy, nervous sort of laugh escaped his lungs; his smile was bright, and Deborah found that it was impossible to break the hold that his eyes had on hers, even as the bridge of his nose crinkled, “W-what’s brought this on?”

“I love you.” Deborah replied, shrugging helplessly at Martin’s bewildered, and flattered expression, as his smile turned into a grin and just kept growing; the weight on her chest was whirring and roaring, and just waiting to be ejected, “I just love you.”

“Yeah, I-I uh, I-I-I, yes.” Martin spluttered, apparently unable to string together a whole sentence as he leaned over the arm of his seat, his knuckles white where he gripped it; his eyes were darting this way and that, and he gasped, “Yes – I-I, oh god, are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Deborah remarked faintly, still and calm, and the complete opposite to Martin’s jittering mess, letting the warm glow from her chest ripple through her and light up the smile on her face as she cherished the unrestrained joy on Martin’s face; she couldn’t fight it anymore, she needed him so much.

Martin’s face split into a picture of complete and utter thrill, and he let out another nervous, joyous chuckle as if he couldn’t believe his ears, reaching out across the gap between them; Deborah’s hand rose to meet his, and she couldn’t even care that it ached as he clasped their fingers together.

“I _love_ you.” Martin sighed a groan that got caught up in another bemused chuckle as he shook his head, pressing his eyes closed before meeting her gaze; he startled as if he were about to stand, or bridge the space between them, but Deborah tugged on his hand, keeping him seated.

“No, stay there.” Deborah instructed softly, extracting her hand from Martin’s grasp, and ignoring his curious watch as she rose from her seat, fighting down a grin as she crossed the space between them and hoisted herself onto Martin’s lap, into his waiting arms which wrapped around her and pulled her close without a second thought.

With her legs hanging through the gaps underneath the arms of the seat, Martin’s arms and hands curling and squeezing and embracing as much of her as he could while Deborah wrapped her arms around her neck, allowing her head to fall down next to his, tucking their cheeks together, snuggling her nose in against the crook of Martin’s neck, inhaling him while she was sure that he was doing the same to her, it was the most wonderful Deborah had felt in months.

This, being held together, chests rising and falling where they were pressed together, with Martin murmuring nonsense into her hair as his hands carded through it, then down her back, Deborah was enveloped in the rush of warmth that surged in her chest, then tore through the rest of her until her eyes almost watered with the overwhelming _rightness_ of it all, this was better than any stolen kisses or near misses.

How Deborah could have ever denied herself this, kept away from Martin, she didn’t know; she didn’t know when it had happened, or how, but Martin had become an integral piece of her, and she ached at the thought of extracting herself from the secure and tight, almost painful hold that he had her in.

“Oh, _god_ , I love you.” Martin murmured into her hair, tucking her around him as best he could; his voice sounded as if he might be on the verge of tears, or about to burst into song, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, Martin.” Deborah chuckled weakly, as she leaned back, allowing some space to come between them as she looked into Martin’s eyes; their foreheads were almost touching, and Deborah’s hair was a mess, a visible frame on the peripheries of her vision, but she couldn’t find it in her to care, as she propped herself up with one hand on the back of the seat behind Martin’s head, and the other brushing past his cheek, “Come here.”

With that, Deborah ducked down and pressed her lips to his, and Martin responded eagerly, curling one hand around to stroke down her back, and the other to wind through her hair and stroke over and around her face, pulling her close enough that they could both tip their heads, and Deborah could appreciate the flooding rush of absolutely magnificent lightness that soared through her veins, and cherish the feel of his shoulder shifting under the hand that wasn’t still on the back of his chest, and his lips moving slowly but surely around and against and between hers.

There was nothing hurried or rushed about it this time; they simply fell into each other, and Deborah thought that it felt like toppling off of a precipice into a pit of the best feeling in the world, a brilliant, perfect shining light.

“This is completely unprofessional, and-” Martin pulled back, gasping for breath as Deborah grinned and brushed the tip of her nose against his; he was still beaming, so there was nothing to worry about, not as his chest was rumbling with restrained laughter.

“Shhh…” Deborah shushed him, and ducked down for another kiss, squeezing his shoulder playfully; the moment was so beautifully routine, except for the location and their positions, that she couldn’t help herself.

Martin didn’t seem deterred, and within moments they were kissing again, properly, wrapped around each other and just relishing being together again; Deborah couldn’t help but grin against Martin’s lips as he tugged her closer, and she allowed herself to simply enjoy it as she pushed her hand through his hair, knocking the hat from atop his head, pushing away any negative thoughts that might have been lingering from before.

They stayed like that for a while, not that Deborah could keep track of the seconds, just kissing and holding each other close; there was no rush, no sense that they needed to hurry up and get things done, no need to do anything more than just relax and cherish the pleasant tingles that ran up through her veins and to the tips of her fingers.

Then the flight-deck door swung open, and Deborah barely had time to lean back and detach herself from Martin’s lips, highly aware of the fact that she was sitting wrapped in Martin’s arms on his lap; Martin’s only response was to make a startled sound, and clench his fingers more tightly as they fell to her legs instead of pushing her away as he struggled to peer over the back of his seat.

“Oh – I’m sorry!” the door clanged shut almost immediately after it opened, and Arthur’s voice echoed through it, “Mum told me to come and get you.”

Martin’s head snapped back around, and his eyebrows darted to his hairline as he glared desperately at her; even so, he didn’t make any effort to move or let go of her, simply silently demanding that she do something.

“Tell her we’ll be there in a bit.” Deborah called, letting the tension fade from her limbs as she dropped her hand from the back of the seat and around Martin’s shoulders, smiling down at him as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, um…the thing about that…” Arthur replied cautiously through the door, “is that, I’m really glad you’re back together, and it’s brilliant – but um, Mum said that she didn’t want to see me back unless I had you both with me, so…you sort of need to come now.”

Deborah rolled her eyes and tipped her head back, cursing Carolyn and her terrible timing; as she sat back, putting a few inches between her and Martin, he smiled and shifted so that they weren’t quite so slumped, and turned his head to call out to her despair.

“We’re coming now Arthur, just give us two minutes.”

oOoOoOo

She hadn’t meant to look, it was just a thing that they did, a force of habit; if one member of the crew left their emails open, then whoever came across it, before they turned the computer off, checked to see if there were any messages and alerted those concerned if there was anything of importance.

It was just a thing that they did, and Deborah hadn’t even thought about it as she swept past their desks and span the laptop around, running her eyes over Martin’s recent messages to check that his family hadn’t contacted him while they had been being lectured by Carolyn. She was about to turn the device off for him when in the middle of the list the words Swiss Air stuck out and caught her attention, tagged only a few days before.

The temptation to read it had been irresistible, even as the sinking in her guts began before she had placed her fingers on the scroll pad; now, it felt like the giddy contentedness that had settled over her was frozen, halted and on standby, waiting for the other foot to fall. Not the clammy, itching, angst ridden mess of before…no, this was like a mute button, leaving only a dull ache and a reeling mind as Deborah began fitting things into place.

The door to the porta-cabin cracked, jammed, and then swung open just as Deborah was pushing down the lid of Martin’s laptop, and even though she could hear Martin humming as he wandered past the coat rack, and then towards her, she remained propped up, both arms outstretched on the desk, head down, for a moment before she turned to face him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you got the job at Swiss Air?” Deborah demanded dryly, pressing her lips together, wrapping her arms around her chest and forcing an ounce of composure as she glared him down; she didn’t waver at the look of shock that stole over Martin’s face.

“What?” Martin’s voice came out as a sort of reedy squeak, and he dropped the papers that he had been in the process of stacking; Deborah simply raised her eyebrows, and his expression shifted, and his jaw set into the stubborn and proud image that she was so used to, “H-how do you-”

“Don’t you get indignant with me; the company messaged you to ask whether you’d made a decision.” Deborah snapped, pursing her lips and extracting an arm to point decisively at him, stopping Martin in his tracks; she wasn’t quite angry, but there was something there, flaming and roaring in her guts and keeping the pang in her chest from dragging her down, “You’ve just spent weeks trying to get me to agree to a relationship with you, all the while knowing that you’d be leaving come June.”

“No – n-no, that’s not – that’s not what I’ve been doing at all.” Martin stuttered, shaking his head and raising his hands as if in surrender; Deborah narrowed her eyes, prepared to listen to him, but not to pander, “I’ve been trying to get you back because I love you, and I want you back.”

“But you’ve got the job Martin!” Deborah raised her voice, enunciating loud and clear as she glared him down, leaning away from the desk, refusing to use it to support herself as she inhaled sharply and squared her shoulders.

“No, I haven’t, not until I agree to take it.” Martin argued, standing facing her, his hands clenching at his side as he adopted his trademark proud and prissy posture; this wasn’t something that he could talk his way out of, and Deborah wanted answers, something to make up for the lies that she had been drinking in for weeks now.

“Which you haven’t done yet!” Deborah reminded him, doing nothing to soften the edge in her tone, even as Martin winced imperceptibly at the accusation; she knew that he was an idiot, but this went far beyond his usual specs, actually risking his future happiness, “Why not? Why this whole charade?”

“It’s not a charade!” Martin barked, clamping his mouth shut as his cheeks flared red with exertion, and he jolted as if to pace, only to stop and force himself to face her; he may have had his own brand of logic, but it wouldn’t cut it this time.

“You’ve been telling me that you probably won’t get it.” Deborah remarked, controlling her tone of voice and focusing on keeping herself held together, fuelled by the irritation flaring inside of her; it wasn’t like when they fought and were apart, this was more centred, as if stating that they were together somehow made it easier to put him in his place and demand information, “But I see now that was just a lie to try and get me back on side-”

“No, it wasn’t a lie-” Martin insisted agitatedly, shaking his head quickly; he took a deep breath and looked back to her, extending his hands and gazing imploringly into Deborah’s eyes, “I just knew that if you knew, you’d make me go and you wouldn’t even consider being with me!”

“And now that I’ve taken you back?” Deborah asked, quirking an eyebrow pointedly at him, making sure to keep her glare heated and demanding; it didn’t take much effort at all, and Martin’s stubborn demeanour faltered.

“I’d have turned it down and told you they rejected me.” Martin admitted, his eyes flickered down to the floor as he scuffed his feet, and shoved his hands into his pockets, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as his cheeks flushed a lighter shade of pink; he sounded like a schoolboy justifying a misdemeanour, against all logical sense, but Deborah refused to be swayed, no matter how much it might have tugged at her heartstrings.

“And if I had refused to restart our relationship at all?” Deborah demanded, remaining stoic; when Martin didn’t respond immediately, she snapped, raising a hand to click his fingers at him, drawing him back to the real world and away from whatever he was pouting at, “What would you have done Martin? Just left it and left it without replying?”

“No, I was holding on- waiting to see what you’d-” Martin began to explain, but Deborah cut him off, shaking her head; she’d heard enough excuses to last her a lifetime, and couldn’t even begin to work out why Martin was lying. This was his entire future, his dream come true, and he was being as stubborn and ridiculous as he had ever been in the entirety of their years together; she never thought she’d see the day when _she_ of all people was getting Martin to do what was best for him.

“You weren’t doing much of anything!” Deborah interrupted him sharply, taking another deep breath to keep herself calm; she didn’t want a fight, not when the happiness of earlier was still so fresh, “I know you Martin, the only reason that job’s still hanging is in case I never said yes, and you decided to leave instead.”

“I-I-I- yeah…yeah…I couldn’t say yes, because there was a chance I might win you over, and I couldn’t ask you to come with you.” Martin replied, pulling his hands from his pockets and winding his fingers together; his throat bobbed awkwardly, and Deborah couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, damn her soppy heart, “But I couldn’t – I-I-I couldn’t say no because-”

“Because it’s a good offer.” Deborah finished for him, letting the tension leave her shoulders, as her arms fell to her sides, and she sighed, because when it really came down to it, she knew Martin inside out; that made it very difficult to be mad at him, yet the cloying in her chest hadn’t quite returned, “It’s a better offer. It’s your dream job.”

“Yeah…” Martin agreed, frowning at himself and rocking on his heels, refusing to look her in the eye as he sighed and stepped sideways, bringing himself closer to her, so that he could lean back against the desk, “I’ve been…thinking…”

“Procrastinating.” Deborah corrected him, which was enough to get Martin to look at her, and for his eyebrows to dip in bewilderment; she quirked her eyebrows, and, giving in to the little voice in the back of her head, mirrored his movements, settling back against the desk beside him, turning to face him head on, “That’s what you’ve been doing Martin.”

“Yeah…but that doesn’t matter!” Martin exclaimed bitterly, throwing his hands weakly into the air and biting down on his bottom lip; Deborah could understand why he was frustrated, life had put them in a taxing position; but whereas he was trying to make the best out of everything, she could see when she was beaten, having experienced it enough already, “Look, w-we’re together, w-we’re better now, w-we’re-”

“Not.” Deborah interjected softly, reaching across to place a hand over Martin’s wrist; his jitters receded, and he blinked petulantly at her, falling back on his old refusing to accept the state of affairs, his steadfast belief that he could alter the world through sheer force of will, “We’re not anything Martin, because you’re taking that job.”

“No.” Martin retorted, shaking his head, ignoring Deborah as she rolled her eyes.

“No?” Deborah repeated, unable to resist smirking, ever so slightly as a wash of affection that trickled through her chest, even as it merged with a pang of regret; she wasn’t going to budge over this, “I don’t understand why you didn’t just take it to begin with!”

“B-because, I didn’t want to, not, not right then.” Martin explained wanly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck; it was only then that Deborah saw the strain, just how much keeping this information to himself had cost him, wearing him down, “I just, Arthur was talking, and I saw you, and I-I just, I couldn’t stand the thought o-of not being with you, o-or of being so far away, a-and I-”

“Stop.” Deborah sighed, closing her eyes, momentarily blocking out the world as she raised her hands in surrender; they couldn’t do this anymore, it was making their lives miserable, and driving Martin mad, “Martin stop. We’re not fighting over this.”

“It _sounds_ like we’re fighting over this!” Martin retorted, folding his arms roughly over his chest, running his eyes over her face.

“No, no you’re right. We were good – half an hour ago, we were good.” Deborah remarked calmly, reaching out to hook her fingers under Martin’s chin and bring him back when he tried to turn away; they needed to do this, “So I don’t want to fight over this, I want to sit down, and have a proper conversation with you about why you’re being such an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot-” Martin started to snap; then he paused, and his face slackened, and he slowly slipped his wrist from Deborah’s grasp, nodding with his lips pressed tightly together, “I’m- Okay, fine, alright, let’s talk.”

“Not now.” Deborah instructed him, fleetingly mourning the loss of contact as she watched his arm disappear back around his side, and swallowing back the first prickling of tentativeness; she needed to be strong for this, so that there would be no backing down, “Just…I’m going home. You, you go, and you get some Chinese, or whatever you fancy, and then come round mine, and we’ll talk there.”

“Right.” Martin replied faintly, staring at her with an indecipherable expression on his face; then he nodded again, and spoke just as quietly, curling his hand and folding over to rest it over his mouth, taking up the defensive, “Sure, fine.”

Deborah didn’t wait for him to say anything else; she was still reeling, caught somewhere between stunned and let down, and needed to get outside and breathe the cold air of the early evening, clear her head. So without another word, she pushed away from the desk and strode across the room, plucking her coat from where she had dropped it on the sofa on her was over to the desks in the first place, before striding out of the door, leaving Martin to his thoughts.

oOoOoOo

Late into the evening, with the sky outside a dark wash of blue and purple, Deborah found herself perched on the edge of her sofa beside Martin, their knees barely inches from knocking together as the take-away he had picked up lay picked at and neglected on the coffee table.

They had been talking, or at least trying to, for the best part of two hours, and now the air of exhaustion and misery was almost tangible, a soft but sad taste on the comfortable ambiance, like a prickly yet blurred edge around the both of them, pivoting them together while making it hard to regain the heat of before.

“I don’t have to take the job, Deborah.” Martin remarked for what might have been the third time that night; he was sitting hunched forwards as he faced her, hands clenched together over his knees, his voice low, with any indignation and shrillness that he had stored up wasted and exhausted an hour beforehand, “I can stay here, I can stay with you.”

“No, Martin, you can’t.” Deborah said once more, propped up as she was on her folded arms that lay across her thighs; she tilted her head forwards, enough that her hair fell oddly about her shoulders, and she could more easily meet his gaze, blinking sadly at him and the little frown that adorned his lips.

“Why not?” Martin almost groaned, his shoulders sagging as he turned his head where it hung and shifted his blue eyes up to meet hers; his hair was a mess from where he had been running his hands through it.

“Because you want this.” Deborah explained plainly, careful not to let her expression waver; it wasn’t even as if she was pretending to encourage him, as she really did want him to go, was proud of his achievements no matter how much it might hurt to lose him, “This job is everything you’ve ever dreamed about, and I’m not going to let you throw that away for the sake of staying with me.”

“But I love you, I _want_ to stay with you.” Martin insisted, flattening and extending his palms fleetingly as he dragged his bottom lip through his teeth and bit down irritably; the desperation in his eyes wasn’t hard to read, but it only made Deborah’s chest ache for him all the more, and stiffened her resolve.

“And what about in a year, five years, or ten years even? What happens when you start to resent me for being the reason you lost the best offer you’ve ever been given?” Deborah demanded lightly, imploring him to understand; she shifted a little closer, reaching out to take his hand, then stopping before she could, “Because I promise you Martin, even if a bigger airline in Britain snaps you up in the future, it will never be as good as Swiss Air.”

“I wouldn’t resent you for that.” Martin retorted wanly, pouting as if just saying it might make it true; chances were, he actually believed that, even if Deborah knew that he saw the world through a different spackled glass that she did.

“I think you would.” Deborah replied; sighing deeply, she gave in to the pull of his eyes on hers, and slipped her hand across the slim gap between them, and curled her fingers over his where they clenched together, “Martin, darling, even if you don’t, I’m not going to let you give this up.”

“But I-” Martin started, spluttering weakly as he unwound his hands and turned one over beneath hers, his fingers curling reflexively around hers, no pressure, simply linking them; something akin to a warm fizzling puttered in her chest, but she couldn’t allow herself to waver.

“Do you want the job at Swiss Air?” Deborah inquired softly, shifting a little closer as Martin turned into her, until their legs were pressed together side by side, and she had to tip her head back just a fraction to be able to look him in the eye.

“I want you.” Martin answered matter-of-factly, the same mantra that he had been keeping up for weeks now; it wasn’t good enough, he needed to get his head out of the sand and stop deluding himself, accept the reality that they were existing in.

“No, Martin, forget me for a moment.” Deborah instructed, losing her calm for a split second as she closed her eyes and pursed her lips; inhaling slowly, she opened her eyes and held Martin’s gaze, pointedly ignoring the stubborn flush of his cheeks, “Do you want the job at Swiss Air? With the structure, and the pay, and the best aeroplanes that you could ever get your hands on?”

“I could-” Martin started eagerly, his eyes lighting up, but Deborah cut  him off.

“ _Martin!”_ Deborah scolded him, squeezing his hand sharply to drag him away from whatever insane suggestion he was about to throw at her.

“Yes!” Martin exclaimed, immediately looking stricken, as he scowled at her, at himself, and threw his free hand into the air; victory wasn’t quite as sweet as it should have been, and Deborah could only smile wanly at him as he tore his hand through his hair, “Yes, I want it! Of course I want it!”

“Then you’re going to accept that job, and you’re going to go to Switzerland and take what you want.” Deborah told him, placing her other hand over his, where they were already joined, stroking her thumb soothingly over his knuckles; this was best, “I’m not going to change my mind, not now that I know it’s there for you.”

“Why?” Martin croaked as his eyes darted over her face, his limbs sagging as he turned to grip her hands in return, bringing them even closer, until his elbow could have tucked into her side with no fuss; the watery edge to his eyes, and the slight shuddering of his breath felt like claws tickling at her guts.

“Because _I_ love _you_.” Deborah explained confidently, swallowing back any urge that she might have had to be moved to tears as she held onto him like an anchor, reminding her of what was really important, “Enough that I refuse to keep you here when you could be far happier and better off somewhere else.”

“We were getting back together.” Martin breathed thinly, his voice shaking with his breaths as tears threatened to well up in his eyes, stopped, it must have been, by pure willpower, as his hands vice-like around hers, “Earlier, we were so happy, and we were getting back together…”

“We _are_ back together.” Deborah corrected him, trying not to sniffle as she lifted their intertwined hands to her cheek, turning her head to press a small kiss to Martin’s knuckles, “You won me over, Martin, you did it; you got me back.”

“You said that we weren’t anything.” Martin muttered, looking down all of a sudden to watch the path of their hands back onto his knees; trust Martin to argue semantics over something he had been fighting for for weeks.

“That was wrong of me, I was angry.” Deborah sighed, shaking her head and looking away to glance at the coffee table, a neutral object as Martin’s eyes wandered back up to latch onto hers, “I’m not taking back what I said in the flight-deck. I love you too much…”

“Then I could stay and keep our relationship going-” Martin suggested eagerly, jolting as he shifted, like a god with a bone when he got an idea into his head.

“No, you couldn’t.” Deborah interjected, regretting how sharp that sounded the moment it left her lips and Martins’ hopeful grimace fell; taking a deep breath, she let go of the niggle of agitation that had begun to sprout near the back of her mind, and instead decided that perhaps, if she was willing to try, she could make him see that it wasn’t just the job that had been keeping them apart, “Martin, when you think of _us_ , what are you imagining?”

“Us, in love, together, doing…the sort of thing that I thought we’d be doing tonight.” Martin answered as if it were obvious, shrugging his shoulders and playing a little with her fingers; it wasn’t obvious at all, and it brought to mind like a chilly reminder one of the many reasons that she had refused him to begin with.

There was nothing wrong with being in love, with being best friends, with _wanting_ each other…but trying to get Martin to even consider the rest, despite all of his talk about commitment, was like pulling teeth….and it should never be that hard, not unless one party happens to be far more invested than the other.

“Anything else?” Deborah inquired faintly, blinking imploringly across at him, begging him to answer correctly; love and desire and friendship…anything else?...the important things…bickering over who would do the laundry?...deciding who would take the car at what times?...going to bed when one saw the other start to yawn? … building up a home together, arranging the furniture…important things?

Things that actually made a relationship? The future? Deborah thought about these things all the time, couldn’t stop thinking about them when they had been together the first time, but Martin? Martin hadn’t said a word.

If they stayed together, where would they live?…for how long?...how would they learn to navigate around each other?...what kind of flowers did they both like?...what names were they both fond of?...everything that Martin seemed unable to even imagine. The sort of things that might be worth abandoning a good job offer for.

“I-I l-like what?” Martin replied, the bridge of his nose crinkling in confusion; Deborah’s heart fell, though she hadn’t expected anything different; it wasn’t a bad disappointment, even a flattering one, “You’re my best friend and I love you, isn’t that enough?”

“Martin…those things will still be true, even if you’re in Switzerland.” Deborah groaned, forcing herself to remain calm and gentle, to maintain the pressure on his hands, smiling sadly at him, countering the sad realisation on his own face; in the same moment, it occurred to her why that clagging dejection hadn’t yet gripped her heart and made it hard to breathe, “You can’t refuse your perfect job because of them.”

“What?” Martin retorted, confused, but as if some strange, almost humorous realisation were dawning, “Are you suggesting we stay together, but long distance? Video calls and texting and occasional holidays in the same country?”

“Well, if I won’t let you stay and waste your life, but neither of us can keep away from each other, then why not?” Deborah remarked, leaning in a little closer, almost conspiratorially, encouragingly, as she forced a hopefully, dewy eyes little smile; Martin leaned in in turn, letting his forehead rest against hers, tucking them together, closing his eyes while Deborah kept hers open, unable to let her guard down just yet, “But…if you were to meet someone else…”

“I won’t.” Martin stated firmly, not moving, not opening his eyes, simply gripping her hands more tightly and tucking his forehead more securely against hers, so that they could have been cuddled together on the sofa, were it not for the static nature of their posture, “There won’t be anyone that I want more than you.”

“Then our long-distance relationship will be just fine.” Deborah managed to choke out a laugh, clinging to the little flicker of warm hope and affection as she cherished the tight grip that Martin had on her, determined as he was to keep her, no matter where he went.

 “Do you really think we could do that?” Martin asked after a while, quietly, like his voice might shatter the peace; Deborah could only concentrate on the tickle as his fingers moved around hers, a pleasant rippled through her veins.

“It’s a better alternative that you leaving and never speaking to me again, so yes…I think it could…work…” Deborah replied, trailing off as it became a little harder to believe herself; it hadn’t occurred to her before today that they could hang onto each other from afar, but now that it was in her head, she couldn’t let it go.

“I want to _be_ with you.” Martin sighed, opening his eyes; this close, he could gaze into hers and there was little chance of her looking away.

“You can be.” Deborah assured him gently, leaning back enough that although their heads were still tucked together, their sides pressed up beside one another, she could untangle their hands and reassert a sense of seriousness about her expression, “Just…the job comes first.”

Deborah wasn’t sure how long the two of them sat like that, linked together, breathing in tandem and completely in sync, just as they had been hours beforehand in the flight-deck; she didn’t want to ever let go of that feeling, so as she focused on Martin’s breath, ghosting across her cheeks, she told herself over and over that it wouldn’t fade just because they were miles apart. She hadn’t stopped loving him when they went on solo flights, why should this be any different…she was losing her touch…

“So now what?” Martin sounded tired, exhausted really, and so sad that Deborah wanted to wrap her arms around him and just make it better, somehow…but there was also an edge of acceptance there, and just like magic, Deborah felt the trepid weight on her chest flutter away, replaced by the steadfast knowledge of what was.

And the lingering hum of a pleasant tune, like a light allowed to shine through what had previously been night; Martin was there, and they were together, in a way, and merely hours before Deborah would have climbed mountains just to let him have her.

“Well…we’re back together, in a way…” Deborah remarked in not quite a drawl, as she leaned a little more comfortably into Martin’s side, cocking her head to meet his eyes as she slid her hand back between them, curling her fingers gently over his knee, “and we’re here, at night…I really have missed you…”

“It sort of sounds like you’re suggesting one last hurrah.” Martin replied, his tone lifting fractionally with the first inkling of a fond smirk that she had seen all night, as his cheeks managed to turn that little bit redder; good, Deborah mused, he _did_ understand what she was suggesting.

“Maybe I am.” Deborah drawled lightly, as she brought herself that inch closer, running her lips past his ear to place a small kiss to his cheek; leaving, he might have been, but they were together now, and she had missed him far too much.

Martin didn’t need any more encouragement, as slowly he turned, running his eyes over her while a small, oddly pensive expression stole across his face, and he shifted closer, until he was almost kneeling on the sofa, letting Deborah’s hands slide from his knees to around his waist and his back, and he stroked his hands past her ears, brushing her cheeks with the back of his knuckles as he pushed her hair behind her shoulders and then stayed there, as if he were framing her face, enraptured by a work of art.

Then there was kissing, and holding, and Deborah found herself lying with the cushions beneath her back, and Martin everywhere else, and she couldn’t find it in herself to give two damns about anything else.

oOoOoOo

In the morning, after Deborah had woken up to Martin curled around her, stroking the tip of his fingers through her hair, and after the warm rush of affection and the familiar fluttering had settled into place, after they had shared the well worn platitudes and declarations murmured, and small kisses pressed here and there, she made her excuses and climbed out of bed, slipping on the pyjamas that she had nearby and wandering through to the bathroom to sort herself out in the mirror.

Then Deborah listened at the door, back pressed against the wall by the frame, as Martin talked on the phone, accepting Swiss Air’s offer with a slightly croaky, reedy voice, while she pulled at the still messy strands of hair between her fingers, and thought strong, sarcastic thoughts until the tears that were threatening to pour out faded away.

She waited for the sound of Martin’s phone hitting the floor, and the thump of his back hitting the mattress before she re-entered the room, making no effort to try and pretend that she was smiling or cheerful; he would see through it in a second. Martin was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with a hard expression on his face, but the moment that he saw Deborah, he lifted his head and his features softened into their usual blush, and he let his arm flop out and his fingers curl, beckoning her to come and curl in beside him, tucked up in his arms, which was exactly what she did.

They didn’t say much, barely a thing at all, too concerned with simply cherishing being close at all, while the looming presence of what had just been executed hung over them, tinging each interaction with a melancholy sort of sadness, that even lying with her head tucked into the crook of Martin’s neck, comfortable and warm with his arms around her waist and his torso wrapped in hers, where she could hear his heart pounding out of time with the rise and fall, couldn’t drive away.

It was only when Deborah noticed Martin playing with her sleeve, picking at the arm that she had slipped around his chest, that she realised what she had thought of as pyjamas when she picked them up was actually the fleece that she had ‘stolen’ from him months ago, a token from the end of a van job; he didn’t say a word, merely smiled down at her with an odd light in his eyes when she shifted her arm to playfully bat him away, and tilted her head back to peck lightly at his chin.

Neither of them said much of anything; there wasn’t much more to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, and thank you for reading.
> 
> Just wanted to say, I hope you're all enjoying this, and that if anyone would like to maybe do some art or other interesting things for the fix, then I'd absolutely love to see it.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

It had been remarkably easy to slip back into the habits of a couple, picking up the little pieces of their relationship that had dropped when they spilt up, and yet, Deborah couldn’t help but feel as if every moment she spent with Martin, be it working (procrastinating) in the porta-cabin, falling into bed (mostly to sleep, if she was honest), or pottering around side by side and engaging in fleeting dates and other activities, was tainted by the bitter knowledge that it would be over soon.

True, she and Martin would still be together, in a way, and just as in love as they had ever been, but they would be miles apart; snatched weekends here and there, and holidays months apart spent catching up on their intimacy and physical needs just didn’t seem to match up to sitting side by side on the sofa as their knees brushed, or slumping around the kitchen while one of them set about household tasks. At least not in her head…

Deborah was going to miss just having Martin _there_ more than she had missed anyone else in her life, save perhaps her daughter.

Verity hadn’t taken the news well; apparently she felt safe throwing a tantrum when there were miles of phone-line between them, and Deborah had had to listen to a furious mixture of despair and rage as the little girl demanded to know why Martin could even think of leaving them. Deborah had had to promise that Martin was definitely still a part of their lives, and that they would negotiate their visits so that they could be together, the three of them, however sparsely that might be.

The whole event had only served as a sharp reminder of just how integral Martin had become in Deborah’s life; she had never realised quite how deeply he had burrowed into her world, but that was what he did. There was just something about him that left an itch, unpleasant at first, but extremely noticeable one it was gone; anxiety and a charming personal twitch could so easily be misconstrued as pernicious and rude if he wasn’t given the chance, but Martin was, if nothing else, clingy. And clinging was exactly what he was doing, to every crevice of Deborah’s mind.

But her resolve was unshakeable now, and the offer had been accepted, and together, Deborah and Martin worked towards preparing him for one of the biggest leaps of his life. The more prepared Martin became, the prouder Deborah was of him, which made the faint ache in her chest worth it.

Martin had given his landlord his notice, and would be moving out of Parkside Terrace the day before he was set to leave for Switzerland; they still had no idea where he was going to stay due to his meagre funds, but there was always a bed and breakfast, or a hotel that could be found on short notice. So while he had the essentials packed up to take with him, most of Martin’s bulkier possessions would be boxed up in Deborah’s spare room until she could have them transported to a more permanent place of residence.

There was no debate over how they spent the remnants of their time; of course, flights carried on as normal, but at a much slower pace than they had in the past, as if MJN itself could hear the end looming on the horizon, and the two of them had barely spent the stays abroad apart when they were _fighting_. When they were at home, they gravitated towards Deborah’s flat, as they moved boxes between the two, and when they did go out for dates or dinners or just to fetch the shopping, Martin hid his reluctance to miss a moment by amplifying his tendency to be ‘helpful’ and earn his keep, stating that Deborah could use a hand or someone to take over if she got tired of driving.

Deborah couldn’t say she minded; if anything, she was cherishing every moment she got to spend in Martin’s presence, hoping that prolonged exposure would make the eventual fade from warmth to dullness slow.

Unusually, they had started today in Martin’s attic, Deborah having had no energy (in fact simply being stubborn because she rather liked pottering around the small space that was steadily losing its Martin-ish allure) the previous night to get back in her car after they had spent far too long packing up his things due to how extremely distracting and cuddly they had both been feeling; Martin had seemed incapable of not swooping down behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and press snuggly kisses to her neck, and Deborah had simply forgotten to protest, making for one unproductive day.

Now it was mid-afternoon and Deborah was letting the first scraps of dinner heat in the oven, listening as Martin hummed and murmured under his breath, bopping around her sitting room in an unusually frantic demonstration of energy as ‘ _Run-around Sue’_ played on her stereo; they had moved some of his heavier furniture today, and once everything had been packed into the spare room, Martin had almost immediately started digging through her CDs full of music from the fifties and sixties that he had grown so fond of since the start of their friendship.

She supposed that he was just jittering as he was wont to do before tricky passengers or tests, working himself up with the nerves that he was inevitably feeling at the prospect of leaving MJN; his safety net was being slowly deconstructed, and soon he would be flying away to better pastures.

When Deborah wandered back into the sitting room, Martin turned quickly from where he had been playing with the few sentimental objects that she had lying about on the shelf above the stereo, still swaying slightly in time with the music; a smile slipped across his lips as his cheeks flared up and the corners of his eyes crinkled, a nice sight to see if there ever was one.

Deborah quirked an eyebrow at him, and smirked playfully as she crossed the room to meet him, catching his quick movement as the track changed, and he flicked a button on the stereo to change it back before stepping forwards and bringing his arms up to receive her.

“You do know that there are other songs on that CD?” Deborah murmured as she allowed Martin to pull her close, but not too close, so that he could carry on swaying with her hands curling over his shoulders.

“Of course I do,” Martin replied brightly, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips; the contentedness could almost be felt radiating from him, as he wrinkled his nose, drawing Deborah’s attention away from the way he was shifting and slipping his arm under hers while simultaneously hooking the other arm more securely around her waist, until she was tucked into the crook of his elbow, “But, this one’s your favourite – I even learnt all the words in case I ever needed to serenade you.”

“Oh _did_ you!” Deborah drawled, her smirk overflowing into an entranced smile as the fluttering of heat in her chest threatened to reach a sarcastic climax; she continued to watch Martin with a raised eyebrow, until she felt the arm beneath hers flex, and the fingers of that hand intertwined with hers.

Then, without any warning (or perhaps there had been and she just hadn’t noticed) Martin bobbed backwards, pulling her to her surprise into a jaunty little waltz, keeping perfect time with the swinging sixties rhythm as he grinned at her shock.

 _“I should have known it from the very start, this girl will leave me with a broken heart_ ,” Martin sang in that low, smooth voice that Deborah could still remember practically quivering under the first time she had ever heard it; now though, still caught off guard and carried by Martin’s swaying and swinging, she could only giggle and allow him to twirl her around the sitting room, “ _Now listen people what I'm telling you, A-keep away from-a Runaround Sue, yeah.”_

 _“I might miss her lips and the smile on her face, the touch of her hand and this girl's warm embrace,”_ Martin continued to sing, his voice trembling as a chuckle threatened to escape when he nearly twirled Deborah into the coffee; she couldn’t find it in herself to care, relishing the complete intoxication of joy for the first time in weeks, no worries about the future, “ _So if you don't wanna cry like I do, A-keep away from-a Runaround Sue.”_

“ _Whoooahhhh, whoo-oah-oa-oaooh”_ Deborah joined in as Martin began to dissolve into giggles, still making a valiant effort to keep the dance somewhat structured, but failing dismally as Deborah pulled back slightly to add some swing, holding tightly to his hand to ensure that she’d be pulled back to rest against his chest only moments later, “ _Whoooahhhh, whoo-oah-oa-oaooh, Whoooahhhh, whoo-oah-oa-oaooh.”_

They must have kept that going for almost half an hour, too wrapped up in enjoying each other to get back to whatever it was they should have been doing, not that it could have been important in the first place; eventually, Deborah found herself lying back on the sofa, half covering Martin’s chest with her shoulder as they lay side by side, his arms around her, comfortable and warm and satiated with exhaustion, tucked up together.

“Why did your dad want you to be an electrician?” Deborah inquired softly, taking advantage of the peaceful lull and Martin’s pliancy as she held his hand in hers, enjoying the feel of the toughened skin and bony knuckles as she spun his signet ring in little circles around his finger, carelessly fiddling as he allowed her to do it, possibly because the fingers of his other hand were trailing little circles on her hip.

“What?” Martin asked lazily, the bridge of his nose crinkling in confusion as he tilted his head down to meet her eyes, “W-when did I tell you that?”

“A few years ago.” Deborah replied, smiling faintly at the memory; there were so many facets of each other that they hadn’t yet explored, never realising that there would come a time when they might need to, and now she couldn’t help but dwell on that fact, “I’ve just been wondering if there was a particular reason.”

“Well, um, I think he saw that I was good at things like Maths and Physics, and then when he let me help him with small things like light bulbs and fuses, he got it into his head that it would be a safe career choice for me.” Martin explained after a moment, shrugging awkwardly beneath her; then his eyes widened imperceptibly, and he made a sudden movement with his hand as he impressed upon her, “H-he was a handy-man, he wasn’t just letting me play with electrical items.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” Deborah remarked wryly, chuckling lightly and taking his hand in hers to lower it back down to her side; she had always wondered, since Martin had first opened up and revealed parts of his life, just what had made him the way that he was, and it wasn’t the sort of conversation you had over the phone, “Did you ever give him any suggestion that you might actually want to be an electrician?”

“Well, no, I’d always said that I wanted to be a pilot. But I probably could be an electrician if I wanted to-” Martin mused, frowning slightly in thought; it was a fair assessment, Deborah hummed in agreement, as she had seen Martin fiddle with all sorts of broken items until they sparked into life, “I got quite good at helping him. I think it’s just that while I was enjoying getting father son time and having him look all proud of me, _he_ was enjoying the idea that he was training me up for greater things.”

“I suppose that was sensible of him.” Deborah suggested tentatively, making sure to give Martin’s hand a little squeeze and cuddle a little closer; the last thing she wanted was to let him get bogged down by petulant nostalgia, “Although, I’m rather glad you chose to do things your own way…you’re much better suited to the flight deck than someone’s fuse box.”

“I thought you quite liked watching me do manual labour.” Martin remarked coyly, playfully raising an eyebrow as he shifted to bring them closer; it was a tempting proposition, but it was also too early in the afternoon, and Deborah was content to doze about.

“Oh, I _do_ ,” Deborah drawled, leaning up to place a small kiss on his cheek before settling back down, enjoying Martin’s affectionate response as he brushed the tip of his nose against hers, “but we’d never have met otherwise.”

“Maybe…” Martin reluctantly agreed; he didn’t sound happy about it, but Deborah didn’t have time to answer him as he plastered on a cheerful smile and asked, “what about your parents? What did they want you to do?”

“They never pushed me into anything.” Deborah sighed, ignoring the fleeting impulse to brush off the question; if there was one thing that she could have with Martin, it was the assurance that honesty wouldn’t be judged, not too harshly at least; he hadn’t cared about her alcoholism, or her smuggling after all, “Not that they didn’t want to, it’s just very hard to make alternative plans when I didn’t have any of my own. But, my father had faith in the fact that I tend to land on my feet…I’m not sure what he’d think now though…”

“I don’t see how he could be anything but proud.” Martin remarked, catching the tail end of the frown and dismal expression that flittered across her face; he stroked his hand past Deborah’s cheek as she sighed and quirked her eyebrows sardonically.

“I have made a lot of messes throughout my life, Martin.” Deborah retorted bitterly; far too many, from dropping out of medical school to losing her daughter and ending up in a failing company, sending away the only thing keeping her together.

“Yes, but you’ve walked away from all of them and you’re still here.” Martin corrected her, as if it were obvious and of barely any concern; it helped to lift her spirits just a pinch, after all, he wasn’t one to overlook her flaws so much as point them out and pick at them until she behaved, “That’s quite impressive”

“Hmmm…” Deborah sighed, choosing not to argue right then; it didn’t hurt to let him have his way every now and again, “I suppose…”

oOoOoOo

It was so very, very boring lounging around the porta-cabin; it was raining, so the four of them were all packed in, waiting for their businesswoman client to hurry up and arrive like she had said she would. At this rate, they wouldn’t be flying until the evening, which was always an absolute _joy_.

While Martin and Arthur were doing something on the other side of the room, something that was producing quite a lot of snapping and flailing, and Carolyn was hiding in her office, Deborah sat behind her desk, drowning out the rabble and doodling idly a stack of paper that she thought might have been intended for the printer.

The whole thing was monotonous, and there were better things that she could have been doing with her time than scribbling down more caricatures of MJN and mock up posters; her concentration felt like water when it was cupped in someone’s hands, trickling away to the point that the first few times, she had simply started colouring from the corner of the page and filling it in black, using up the ink from Martin’s pens before moving on to a sharp and elegant design, forgoing her usual bubbly font.

“Martin, come and take the phone from me.” Carolyn could be heard instructing; Deborah glanced up in time to see Carolyn standing in the doorway to her office, hand outstretched and offering him her clunky office phone, as Martin paused in his debate with Arthur to narrow his eyes at her.

“Why?” Martin inquired suspiciously, stepping towards her nonetheless.

“Because it’s all a conspiracy.” Carolyn retorted, rolling her eyes and giving the phone a little wave as she bridged the gap between them and shoved it into Martin’s grasp, “Herc’s on the other end, and he’d like a word with you.”

“Oh, alright…” Martin chirped, his expression brightening as he wandered towards the relative shelter of Carolyn’s office; he glanced fleetingly at Deborah as he passed, but not long enough to catch the stiffening of her posture before he disappeared and pulled the door closed behind him, “Hello.”

“Herc’s calling from Switzerland to talk to Martin?” Deborah inquired snippily, failing in her attempt at nonchalance as she dropped her pen down and pushed the doodles away, watching Carolyn like a hawk as the other woman lowered herself into the end of the sofa; the flicker of jealous anxiety that pinched at her stomach was indomitable.

“No, the Moon.” Carolyn replied sarcastically, shaking her head as Arthur appeared at her elbow and placed a cup of coffee in her hands; she still hadn’t wavered in her complete determination that everything go smoothly and according to plan, as if nothing bad were looming on the horizon, “Of course from Switzerland, that’s where he _is_.”

“What does he want to talk to Martin for?” Deborah demanded; unable to stay still much longer, she rose from her seat and strode across the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the sofa, barely navigating Arthur as he swung his wheelie chair around to perch opposite them, bringing them all together as he leaned on the back panel of his chair.

“He heard that Martin needs a place to stay when he arrives in Zurich, and as the pay-checks don’t come through until the end of the month, he’s offering Martin his spare room until the boy can afford to rent his own.” Carolyn explained with a matter-of-fact smile, as if this were good news; Deborah supposed that it was, in a sense, though it made little ripples of despair creep through her chest.

“Well…isn’t that charitable of him.” Deborah remarked dryly, perhaps putting a bit too much force into folding her arms over her chest and one leg over the other, glaring that the wheels on Arthur’s chair as he swayed ever so slightly.

“Oh, don’t sound so petulant.” Carolyn scolded her, lightly batting her elbow with the back of her hand; Deborah only scowled, but made the effort to lift her eyes and pout and her employer, playing the part, “You should be happy that he’s going to make something of himself.”

“Martin’s already something.” Deborah said certainly, jaw set against a grimace as she tipped her chin up just a tad, filled with indignation; years of listening to people put Martin down, and her patience was starting to wear thin, especially as recently, his unbreakable faith in himself had seemed to waver in the face of a challenge, and for the first time she had heard him voice his fear that perhaps he hadn’t been the best Captain in the world, “He doesn’t need to go anywhere to be something.”

“Dear lord, I’d forgotten how soppy you were the first time round.” Carolyn groaned, rolling her eyes as if she were carrying the heaviest of burdens and slouching back into the sofa; she just didn’t understand.

“I think it’s nice that they’re back together.” Arthur interjected, equally at the wrong end of the stick; Deborah glanced up at him, only to find that he was smiling as if the world were right and good, making a sort of ‘together’ motion with his hands, “It’s just like it should be, Deborah and Martin.”

“They’re just making life more difficult for themselves.” Carolyn retorted, shaking her head; she could pretend that she was doing the best for them all she liked, it didn’t make it any less hurtful.

“Yes, thank you for that assessment Carolyn.” Deborah snapped, trying not to scowl no matter how she was feeling; there might be less of a miserable pressure choking her if people would stop trying to interfere with her and Martin’s lives as if they knew what was best for them.

Not that that could ever stop Carolyn from sticking her nose in.

“You know, you should really start looking for new jobs.” Carolyn suggested flippantly, as if it weren’t the most soul crushing thing she had said in months; Deborah didn’t respond, and simply stared at the other woman, hoping that she wasn’t as petulant and watery eyed as she felt as Carolyn continued sternly, “Don’t look at me like that; MJN can’t last more than a few months without another free pilot, and though I might be determined to ride it out to the bitter end, you should be making preparations just like Martin is.”

“You know what my record is Carolyn.” Deborah sighed, giving in to a wash of desolation; that was allowed, when Martin wasn’t around to see it, she could dwell on how miserable her life was destined to become, “No other airline is going to hire me.”

“Then look at _other_ jobs.” Carolyn exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air; it was so easy to tell her what to do when she was couched by the downfall from the company’s end, with a son at home and a partner ready to leap into action at the snap of her fingers, “I’m happy to write you as many references as you need if it’ll make you take your head from your backside and start finding a way to keep a roof over your head.”

“I didn’t realise you cared.” Deborah retorted airily, rolling her eyes and turning away to stare once more at the carpet, taking comfort from the solid motion of pulling her arms more tightly around her chest, enjoying the definitive nature of the gesture.

“I don’t.” Carolyn replied shortly, and just as stubbornly; Deborah stole a sideways glance at her, and wasn’t fooled by the pinched edge to her expression. Maybe it was her time with Herc rubbing off on her and turning her into some sort of humanitarian instead of the misanthrope that Deborah had been hired by, but Carolyn had definitely been interfering far more of late…and lately the broiling in her guts _did_ seem to die down when her problems became the world’s problems.

“I’m a _pilot_.” Deborah exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders helplessly, aware that she sounded as whiny as Martin had in his first few months, but unable to muster the determination to care; there was hardly any point in pretending that she was fine, “Even if I was trained to do other jobs, I want to be pilot, and I want to fly planes.”

“Don’t be so childish!” Carolyn scolded her, huffing loudly, as if a fit of pique might knock some sense into her; unfortunately, any fear that Deborah might have had for the wrath of her boss had faded within a month of working for her, unlike Martin and Arthur, who still scrabbled around when really pushed.

That was what happened when an otherwise threatening woman decided that her longest lasting employee, known for scheming and lying, was a sensible person to trust with worries such as financial insecurity, familial disputes, and to involve in unprofessional chores such as ferrying her son and feeding the dog.

Deborah supposed that if she failed to find anything to do, Arthur would need no convincing to pay her to walk their ridiculous dog…which was one of the most depressing thoughts she had ever had.

“Has _Arthur_ started looking for new jobs yet?” Deborah inquired, putting on a facsimile of pleasantness as she looked away from Carolyn and turned her eyes on Arthur, who had been watching the conversation with an innocently pensive expression on his face; she was sick of talking about this. All of her attempts to stay positive were null and void when Carolyn punctured holes in her previously buoyant mood.

“No, I haven’t.” Arthur replied brightly, shrugging as if it were no problem whatsoever, no skin off of his back; he leaned on his arms where they lay folded over the back of his chair, and swayed ever so slightly, pushed by his ankle, “I’ve been thinking about it, but I don’t want to get another job somewhere and accidently speed up MJN’s ending.”

“For once Arthur, you and I are on the same page.” Deborah remarked wryly, clicking her tongue as she sat forwards, unfolding her arms so that she could prop her chin up on her hands; Arthur was always on her side, and the far safest bet when it came to a safety net.

Leaving MJN was the last thing she wanted, and with the horrid dejected acceptance that sending Martin away brought, Deborah could really use something to cling to; it was the only thing that she still had, and cared about, that was a secure presence in her life, and so long as Arthur was staying, so could she.

“Oh, wow, that’s brilliant.” Arthur exclaimed, smiling, cheerful and happy with the world; Deborah supposed he was happy with the world, he hadn’t said any different…but then again, he wasn’t moving on either, and had never been the sort of person to complain, even if he wasn’t feeling positive.

The thought made a flicker of affection fleetingly warm Deborah’s chest, even though she knew it was a bit cruel; she loved Arthur to bits, and there was something comforting in knowing that even as everything else crumbled, he’d be as relentlessly cheerful as ever.

“It’s not brilliant. The both of you can’t just pretend nothing’s happening!” Carolyn insisted sharply, glaring between the two of them; her irritation was understandable, but Deborah could only scoff faintly, wallowing in her selective obliviousness, “This isn’t going to last forever.”

“I wish it would.” Arthur sighed fondly, pursing his lips and gazing into the middle distance as if he were reliving all their best moments, “Then we could all stay together and there wouldn’t be all this fuss over everyone moving far away from each other; I can’t even imagine working anywhere that didn’t have you guys, no matter how hard I try.”

“Maybe we should steal GERTI and run our own illegal charter firm together.” Deborah suggested, smirking wickedly as Arthur’s eyes lit up and he sat a little straighter; Carolyn huffed beside her, which only served to lift Deborah’s spirits back to their proper angle, “I’m sure we planned to mutiny years ago and never got around to it.”

“Ooh, like sky pirates.” Arthur ran with the idea, squinting into nothingness as he made roundabout motions with his hands, “Like, passengers pay for us to fly them, and we save lots of money by not paying the landing fees and all that other stuff, and we just drop them off and leave really quickly.”

“That is a monumentally stupid idea, Deborah, and your refusal to acknowledge that things are changing is equally stupid.” Carolyn interjected before he could get too carried away; she hadn’t cheered or been distracted as Deborah had hoped, but was still grimacing sternly, sitting back on the sofa with her hands folded together.

“Well I-” Deborah started to snap, lurching back so that she could face the woman head on, arms winding defensively around her chest, but she froze when the door to Carolyn’s office opened quietly, and Martin slipped back into the room; he didn’t say a word, but instead was looking thoughtful, his eyebrows knitted as he picked at his epaulets, “Martin! Anything of interest to share?”

“Yes, uh, yeah…” Martin replied hastily, plastering on a wobbly smile that fooled no one; it was obvious as he wrung his hands together and tread across the room to fill the space that Carolyn vacated, that he had accepted Herc’s offer and was coping just as he had with everything else involved with his leaving; Deborah didn’t push him, and simply leaned into his arm as he sat beside her and said, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

It was going to be a long day, but not nearly long enough for Deborah to soak up as much proximity to Martin as she wanted; far too much of it was taken up greeting their passenger, flying, and then rolling back to her  home, too tired to do much more than lose one more night together.

oOoOoOo

It was finally happening, and Deborah couldn’t decide whether she was glowing with pride or choking on the stone claws that closed around her throat and forced tears to burn just behind her eyes; it was pure willpower that kept her from weeping and clinging to Martin, but now they were here, it felt like a golden rope was guiding her down the right path.

Martin was going to Switzerland, they were in the bloody airport, and she would never forgive herself if she didn’t give him the comfort and encouragement that he needed to take those last few steps; it was as easy, yet as painful, as rolling down a particularly steep hill.

Carolyn and Arthur had decided to allow the two of them space for the final farewell, so the teary goodbyes had been exchanged over a last drink in the porta-cabin, after Martin’s last flight to the Isle of Mann and back; Arthur had been huggy and affectionate and a little more dejected than was his norm, and Carolyn had thrown enough champagnes down her throat that she allowed Martin to pull her into a brief hug, all three of them wobbly.

Deborah had watched the proceedings like a spectator at an opera, quiet and subdued, chest shuddering as she watched the rest of them enjoy their last moments together, bidding each other farewell and laughing what could have been sobs had it been from anyone else, tears welling in her eyes; that was becoming too much of a common occurrence these days.

Then Deborah and Martin had retreated to her flat, Parkside Terrace now nothing more than a memory, empty and awaiting its next tenant; she had tried to act as if everything were normal, but eventually both of them gave up and abandoned their efforts, and barely spent a moment more than an inch away from each other. It would be a long time before they could be intimate again, but Deborah found that the ache in her chest reached its peak at two in the morning as she lay wrapped around Martin’s warm body, hearing and feeling the rise and fall of his chest, certain that he wasn’t asleep as his fingers moved imperceptibly at her back.

Everything was set. Martin’s bags were packed and ready for an extended stay in Herc’s abode, and Deborah’s spare room was filled with boxes that she would ship over when he had his own home.

It was going to be a long time before they could hold each other again, and they weren’t wasting a moment, even now.

Now the two of them stood together in the airport, before the security gate and the checks that would carry Martin away; his carry-on bags lay by their feet, and both Deborah and Martin had only a scarce few inches of air between them as they clung to each other, swapping hushed reassurances and watery miseries.

Martin was hunched ever so slightly, looking smaller than he was in his over-sized coat and as many jumpers as he could get on so that he didn’t have to pack them in his case, his hands on Deborah’s waist as Deborah ran her palms over his upper arms and his shoulders, squeezing soothingly and stealing as much contact as she could before she couldn’t any more, all the while standing with their foreheads pressed together. Deborah couldn’t be certain which of them was sniffling, but there was a high chance that it was both of them.

“Oh g-god, I-I can’t believe this is actually happening.” Martin gasped, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard and sucked in heaving breaths; his eyes were wet and flickering over Deborah’s face, as his fingers dug nervously the curves of her waist, caught between pulling her closer and holding her where he could see her.

“Deep breaths, darling, deep breaths.” Deborah murmured, squeezing Martin’s shoulders firmly before running her hands down to straighten the rumpled v-shaped opening at the neck of his coat, to no avail; it was hard, but she could push through it, she could suck it up and carry on.

“I-I-I just thought,” Martin stuttered desperately, having to pause for breath before he continued, pressing his forehead against her momentarily, exhaling as if he were given a new breath of life, “I thought we’d have fixed us, f-fixed _this_ by now. Properly.”

That made something in Deborah’s chest lurch, and tumble, and it was with an agonising pang that she leaned just so, just a fraction closer, as if pulled into his gravitational field; god, she would have given anything to have fixed them properly. But he couldn’t think that she was having misgivings, she wouldn’t drag him down.

“We’re alright.” Deborah assured Martin, brushing the tip of her nose against his and pressing a light kiss on his lips before leaning back enough that she could meet his teary blue eyes; even as she spoke, she could feel herself unravelling, and the tears beginning to form in her own eyes all over again, “I know it’s not ideal, but we can speak every day, and I know how to do the video chatting on the computer, and we’ve got holidays and weekends and planes galore to actually _be_ together. We’ll be fine, we’re okay, we’re good…”

“I’m going to miss you, s-so m-much.” Martin’s voice trembled as much as his hands did, and it made Deborah long to scoop him up and carry him home with her; instead, she listened and allowed herself to be held close, hearing the shuddering of his breath, as the tears in his eyes began to overflow, just a couple of wet tracks on his cheeks, “I-I already miss you, i-it hurts.”

“Come on now, y-you’re making me cry.” Deborah choked, gasping and unable to hold back the smile that crept unbidden onto her lips; it was as if the painful tug at her gut was simultaneously shining a glittering light on how much perfect this moment could have been if it were happening another way, “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“I miss you.” Martin replied stubbornly, ridiculously, bringing one of his hands up from her waist to card through Deborah’s hair, pushing it behind her ear before repeating the action and leaving it redundant as he tipped his head down and kissed her again, just a light motion.

“I love you too.” Deborah sighed, still caught by the inappropriate, impulsive rush of fiery affection as she raised her hand from Martin’s shoulder and traced the tips of her fingers over his cheek, bringing him back for another soft kiss before he could pull away; it was a slow, gentle caress that only lasted a few seconds, but the sensation of Martin’s lips against hers was agonisingly wonderful, and she barely leaned away when they parted.

“I-I-I c-c-could still s-stay.” Martin spluttered, though there was none of his usual determination behind it, only the clenching of his hands and the shaking, from which of them Deborah wasn’t sure.

“No you couldn’t Martin.” Deborah corrected him, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and placing her hands firmly on Martin’s shoulders, this time holding him at arm’s reach so that she could look him straight in the eye; this had to be done.

“Yes, I could, Deborah.” Martin retorted, glaring back at her, red faced and nodding; all she had to do was look at his expression to see that he wouldn’t do it, but the thought was there, and if she asked, he might, but there was no way that she would, “I could miss my flight.”

“Then you’d get straight on the next one.” Deborah said clearly and calmly, though she was sure that her lips were trembling; the flutter of fondness at the image in her mind was enough to keep her motivated, “You’re going to be fine Martin, I know you are.”

“Yeah…yeah…oh god…” Martin nodded hastily and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, sucking in deep breaths; Deborah pulled him into a swift embrace, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing their cheeks together, bringing her lips to his cheek before stepping back again. When she did, she saw that Martin was no longer trying to hold in the tears that were silently, slowly slipping down his cheeks.

“Hey, now what did I say about crying?” Deborah remarked wryly, forcing a smile and a truncated laugh as she pointed demonstratively at him; the responding smile that flickered across Martin’s face as he bit down on his lip did nothing to stop her own tears escaping, like wet tracks against her skin.

“I love you.” Martin said, when he finally calmed down, enough that he could steady his shaking and form coherent sentences; Deborah smiled sadly as he carelessly rubbed the back of his hand over his face, and then brushed his fingers down her arms, hooking his palms under her elbows so that she could step back into his arms, far more distance between them than before.

“But not as much as you love flying.” Deborah replied, sighing and smiling and raising her hands to take Martin’s face in the tips of her fingers, stroking little circles on his cheeks with her thumbs; that was it, the one unbreakable reason that she couldn’t keep Martin in Fitton with her when there was a better piloting job just waiting for him.

She couldn’t even resent him for it; it was that passion for aviation that made him the neurotic, enticing man that had stolen her heart.

Apparently Martin didn’t feel quite the same way, as to Deborah’s surprise, his eyes widened and hardened, and his trembling ceased almost immediately as his eyebrows dipped and he surveyed her with an expression that could only be called tragic epiphany; the suddenness of the shift, and the muted upset in his eyes took the frantic breath from Deborah’s lungs, and her movements stilled.

“Y-y-you really think that?” Martin demanded softly, his voice serious nonetheless as he placed his hands over hers and lowered them; he kept his fingers wrapped around hers, but the warm gravitas had been replaced by something colder and more uncertain, “That’s actually what you think? You think I…”

“Yes, because it’s true…” Deborah replied slowly, narrowing her eyes at Martin as his eyes flickered across her face, as he _knew_ this, he must have; nevertheless, Deborah hastily tried to put things right, unable to even imagine letting him go even slightly discontented with her, “but I don’t mind. I want you to go out there and get what you’ve always wanted. Martin?”

“You actually think that I…” Martin exclaimed, his voice barely more than a utterance of disbelief as he shook his head and his eyes widened even further; the realisation leached across his face, and he stepped back in surprise, slapping a hand to his forehead as if distraught with himself, dragging it down his face, “oh god…I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not.” Deborah argued quickly, shaking her head and reaching after him to recapture his hand, desperately cocking her head to try and meet Martin’s gaze, to make him believe her; this wasn’t right, Martin wasn’t supposed to think that, he was supposed to be filled with confidence and spurred onto a better and brighter future.

“Yes, yes I am.” Martin stated firmly, squaring his jaw and appearing, if nothing else, the most confident that he had since that had left her flat; he nodded as if to himself, and met her eyes without flickering, inhaling sharply and holding the breath, “You’re right…I need to go.”

“You see what I’ve been telling you?” Deborah asked uncertainly, feeling like the tables had turned and now she was the one on the wrong foot; but this was good? Martin was finally accepting that he was going to be _good_ at Swiss Air…he was confident that things were going to go well…her persuasion had worked?

“I see that you don’t deserve someone as useless as me.” Martin remarked, grimacing at his own words as he threw Deborah through another loop; that wasn’t right, no, that didn’t make sense at all – trying to understand how Martin had come to that conclusion felt like tripping over wall after brick wall.

And it broke her heart; Deborah didn’t know what had caused it this time, but she felt like they had been here before, only all the other times Martin had bitten back and indignantly insisted that he was Captain and no harm was done…somehow, and she didn’t know how, she always, always managed to make Martin feel bad about himself, be it teasing or…god, she didn’t even know what she had done this time.

“You’re not useless.” Deborah told him, quietly, taking both of his hands in hers, then dropping them and grasping his shoulder again, her taking his chin in her other; she may not understand, but she was damned if she was going to let Martin leave thinking even a slightly bitter thought about himself, “And whether you think I deserve you or not, I’ll be waiting here when you pop back to visit.”

“I am a bit useless.” Martin scoffed, but he didn’t pull away again as a small smile made its way back onto his face, and his cheeks flushed lightly; this was good, maybe it wasn’t her fault, “B-but I can do _this_ , I-I-I – you think I can do this job? Really?”

“I think that you’re going to do beautifully.” Deborah assured him, smiling warmly at him and leaning up to place a kiss on his lips; when she pulled back, she couldn’t help but kiss him again when she saw that light in his eyes, “Swiss Air won’t know what hit them.”

“Okay…okay, o-okay.” Martin let out a sort of nervous chuckle, and ran his hands from Deborah’s wrists down to her elbows; Deborah pursed her lips to stop from saying something soppy that would keep him there, “I’m alright, I’ve,” he kept spluttering, but nodding like an ornamental dog; then the metallic voice rang out above their heads, and Martin checked his watch, “I-I’ve got to go before they leave without me.”

“Yeah.” Deborah replied, caught by a rush of cold dread, freezing the fluttering in her chest; but she had to smile through it, and step back, and lay her hand encouragingly on Martin’s arm, forcing herself not to cling to the layers and layers that he was bundled in, “Good luck. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Martin choked, showing one last moment of trepidation before he took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders back, and then dipped down to pull Deborah into a proper, lingering, intense kiss that made her want to cry with how tainted the fluttering in her chest felt; it was perfect and wonderful, and one of the most painful things that she had experienced.

When Martin’s lips finally left hers, leaving a cold empty space, and his hands disappeared from her waist and neck, Deborah conceded defeat and allowed him to slip through her fingers, lagging and lingering and on the verge of tears again as the image of his blue eyes and freckled cheeks blurred slightly, and she felt herself begin to tremble again.

Deborah couldn’t trust herself to speak as Martin swept down to pluck his bags from the floor, and she smiled widely through her tears as he stumbled backwards through the crowd and towards the security desks, as if he were trying not to take his eyes off of her a moment before he needed to.

Then Martin was gone, and all of a sudden Deborah became hyper aware of all the people around her; she wrapped her arms around her chest as if the solidity of her limbs could fix the itching, horrible vacuum that tugged at her flesh and made her ears ring.

Then she crumbled….

Deborah could stay standing, and she could just about regulate her breathing, or at least hold in the noisy sounds that anyone else might be making, but she couldn’t quash the shaking, or the tears the poured down her cheeks no matter how much she tried to blink them away as the thoughts in her head were washed away by the silent sobs wracking through her chest.

She let herself cry, drowning in the waves of misery the roared through her head, for only a short while; then Deborah knew that she had to gather herself up, and she had to get back to her car, and then maybe…maybe she might be stable enough to drive home alone.


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

One week, that was how long it had been since Martin had left; Deborah could just about say that she was coping, or at least, not crying and moping about her flat as if the world had ended. No, she carried on with a renewed vigour, putting all of her energy into MJN as if the world were just beginning anew, and needed a kick-start to keep it running.

Of course, they could only do flights that allowed for one pilot, but that only restricted them to the more westerly side of Europe, not a problem, easily done; Deborah could do those flights in her sleep. The problem was finding clients that only wanted to go so far, and no further, and finding them in such a density that MJN kept making money, in the limited sense that it made money at all.

Carolyn had spent the weekend of Martin’s departure calling all of her contacts and informing them that shorter flights were now 20% cheaper, and ready to go at short notice, which to her credit, did gain a couple of assurances that companies and businessmen would consider booking them for important meetings and such over the next month. She had also called the few allies that advertised the company, mostly other airports and travel agents, to convince teenagers and honeymooners that MJN was the place for them.

That was fine, and it kept Carolyn busy, as well as keeping Deborah and Arthur occupied as they rifled through Martin’s filing system and made the adjustments and additions as was necessary; but it wasn’t enough to keep them afloat. MJN just wasn’t popular enough, nor loud enough, to draw in those that might want hassle free flights within Europe; most of their long term clients were wealthy and upper class, and wanted to fly far away and for long periods of time.

That may have been alright when such a feat was possible and they had time to fit in brief hops here there and everywhere, but Deborah wasn’t superwoman, no matter how much she might like to convince others, and Carolyn was too aware of her limits to try and force overtime or extremely unsafe jobs.

So Deborah had done what she always did, what she was relied upon to do, and did the sneaky bit; Carolyn would be furious if she knew that the recent influx of short distance business was due to Deborah’s interference, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Deborah wanted her job, and she wanted it to stay as it was, so if that meant using every trick in the book, then she would, even if she came across as desperate.

The day after Martin had left, Deborah had sat cross-legged on her bed, and called her brother; they didn’t talk often, only once a month if neither of them forgot or had something better to do, and it was almost always him that called. This wasn’t down to antipathy like the Crieffs, or any ridiculous feud like Carolyn’s family; no, Deborah and Archie had just never been that close.

So Deborah would listen to a brief rundown of what was going on in his life, and he would inquire after her, and after Verity (having no children of his own, he was always keen to know what was going on with his niece), but beyond that, the conversation always boiled down to _‘hello’ ‘’how are you’ ‘I’m fine’ ‘Good’_.

But not this time; this time Deborah had needed Archie’s help, and it only took the minimal amount of begging for him to take pity and help his little sister out of trouble again; in his own words, hiring her airline seemed like a walk in the park compared to some of the things he’d done for her. Deborah wasn’t stubborn enough to argue, knowing that deep down, he was right.

Archie had started out as a clothes designer, or a ‘fashion designer’ as he had demanded she call it; Deborah could just about recall being very, very young, and wishing that she could wear the beautiful clothes that he drew in his notepads for the grown-up school that he had been at then. From there he had worked his way up to designing for models, then running photo shoots and events, and now at the age where he could very well be retiring if he wanted to, Archie was in some senior position in a modelling agency or fashion magazine; Deborah could never remember which.

The important thing was that Archie was in charge of arranging where his models and his writers and bureaucrats went, and when, and how they got there; the perfect opportunity to ask that he perhaps consider saving money by using a smaller, more private airline to ferry his employees across the sunnier and more fashionable expanses of western Europe.

It was asking a lot, but to Deborah’s relief, Archie had agreed; he even booked the flights in his company’s name so that Carolyn wouldn’t suspect that Deborah had been poking her nose in and pulling strings.

Today was the first day that this secret deal was coming into action; MJN was supposed to be flying a group of models and their camera people, and directors, over to Paris, and back again. Carolyn had narrowed her eyes at the phone as flights were booked throughout the next month, and whoever was on the other end (Deborah assumed that Archie was calling himself, but it might have been his PA), promised to book more if the month went well, but she hadn’t said a suspicious word, so Deborah assumed that she was in the clear.

Arthur, who had been dejected and unusually sombre since Martin’s departure, seemed oddly thrilled at the idea of spending time locked in a steel tube with some models; that, in itself, was enough to convince Deborah that she had done that right thing, so long as Arthur was still happy enough to be…well, happy.

All in all, Deborah was coping…it was hardly the first time she had pushed everything back and carried on with her life; besides, she still got to talk to Martin, over the phone, on her laptop. That didn’t do anything to soften the blow to her guts that she felt every time she realised how quiet the flat, or the porta-cabin, or the plane was, nor did it make it any easier to quell the churning misery in her chest as she walked past her spare room full of Martin’s things, or his van in the driveway; she had been thrilled to get a driveway and a spare room when she had taken the flat, a far better deal than the couple in the upstairs flat of the two storey building, but now, she was beginning to regret ever moving in at all.

Not that that would have kept Martin by her side…

Deborah tried not to linger on such thoughts as she prepared to leave the flat, slipping her coat on over her uniform and hoisting her flight-bag over her shoulder; that hadn’t stopped her thinking about in throughout the entire drive to the airfield every day of the last week, but perhaps if she tried particularly hard, today she would reach work without the aching dreariness tugging at her throat.

oOoOoOo

Half way across the Channel, and Deborah was growing bored of being alone on the flight-deck; the heart-wrenching pang that she felt every time she glanced at the empty Captain’s seat was reduced slightly when there were others in the room with her, but today both Arthur and Carolyn were occupied seeing to their passengers, so Deborah had to entertain herself by making up redundant word games.

Arthur was, as expected, fascinated and enraptured by the models; they weren’t the stick thin plastic women that Deborah had been expecting (much to her chagrin and shame) but rather perfectly normal women that were nonetheless stunning in their smiles and laughter and the confidence of their poise. Such was the reason that Carolyn kept trying to send Arthur back to make coffee, but instead, he was hovering around like a gnat.

Deborah inhaled slowly, stretching and clicking her hands around the controls where they sat cool beneath her palms, rolling her shoulders back and trying not to be too uncomfortable in her stuffily padded seat; just a few more hours and she could go home and see if Martin was available for a chat, even for a few minutes so that they could lay their eyes on each other.

She was shaken from her miserable musings by the sound of the flight-deck door swinging open, and the faint chatter from the cabin floating in; now that she was on her own, Deborah could only spare a fleeting glance over her shoulder to see that Arthur was pulling the door closed behind him before having to turn back to monitor the control panel.

“Oh, hello.” Deborah greeted him dourly, noting that Arthur remained at the back of the flight-deck, hovering around the jump-seat with one hand on the back of her seat; swallowing her dejection, she forced a lightness, and smiled wanly in the hopes that he would see it and run with the mood, “Did you grow bored of the beautiful and charming women and their polite colleagues?”

“No, but Mum made– Mum suggested that I come in here for a bit.” Arthur replied, in a tone of voice that made it very clear that it wasn’t a decision that he agreed with, even though he was hardly one to complain about complying; Deborah couldn’t help but smile, a genuine smile this time. It had come to light recently that he was single again, and she couldn’t blame him for trying.

“Were you talking our passengers into an early grave again?” Deborah inquired fondly, glancing upwards, but only able to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s arm; normally when it was just the two of them, he would slump into the Captain’s seat…the fact that he wasn’t today made something uncomfortable clench in her abdomen.

“No, no, I wasn’t bothering them much, I was just asking questions.” Arthur explained quickly, making it clear that he had most definitely been bothering them, though Deborah doubted that he could have been doing much more than asking about their jobs, “But Mum said something about dogs in heat, which I didn’t understand because we’ve got the air-con on, but I understood that she wanted me gone, so here I am.”

“Well, don’t hang around in the back, sit down.” Deborah instructed decidedly, waving an arm towards Martin’s seat…the Captain’s seat; they needed to stop pretending that life had come to a halt, and besides, it was getting dreadfully boring without someone to talk to.

“Oh, okay.” Arthur agreed, somewhat reluctantly; nevertheless, he sidled between the seats and dropped into the empty one, settling back into the padding and extending his arms and rapping his fingers uncomfortably, shifting and shooting Deborah a flickering smile as he tried to buoy the mood, “It’s quite nice up here; I think I might stay here for the rest of the flight, keep you company.”

“There’s no need to keep me company if you’d rather chat up the passengers.” Deborah remarked, immediately clasped by a surge of regret, despite her pleasant albeit sarcastic demeanour; maybe she was being to forceful, getting him to stay, it wasn’t her place to make people entertain her.

No, Deborah grimaced internally, that was just needless worrying brought on by withdrawal from Martin; saying goodbye had knocked her internal balance off kilter, making it difficult to know whether she was trying too hard to fill the space, or not hard enough.

“I want to keep you company.” Arthur repeated certainly, nodding as if that might compound his intention; there was no doubt that now he was thinking about it, he probably _did_ want to stay with her, now that he was fidgeting a little less, and slumping comfortably beside her, “It’s a bit quiet without Martin here, not that I’m not glad that he’s somewhere better, but-”

“Yes, I understand, Arthur.” Deborah cut him off wearily, pursing her lips and taking a moment to close her eyes and press her hand over her lids; this was the over-arching emotion of the last week – exhaustion. She wanted everything to fill her time alone, but could barely stand anything for more than a minute or two.

“Right…um, Deborah?” Arthur couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few moments, in which Deborah was incredibly grateful for the fleeting quiet, filled only by the solid presence of another person; when Deborah deigned to turn her head and raise an expectant eyebrow, he wasn’t frowning so much as watching her cautiously, like one would a dormant volcano, as he played with the dud switches on the side of the seat, “I know you’re going to say that you’re fine, but are you actually fine? Because, if you weren’t, and you wanted to talk, then I wouldn’t mind talking, or-”

“I’m fine.” Deborah replied curtly, turning away from Arthur to gaze out into the sky, barely registering the fluffy wisps outside; normally she got on so well with him, beautifully in fact, like the best of friend, or as he was convinced, family, but now…she just wasn’t in the mood.

When she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Arthur had actually spent time together that wasn’t a heart to heart tainted by tears; they used to spend time together, play games, laugh at how the both of them were on completely different pages, just lie in the sun and ignore each other. As Deborah tried to think back over the past few years, to try and pick out the fun that she and Arthur must have been having, all she seemed able to find were images of her and Martin in the flight-deck, or at her flat…no, that couldn’t be right.

“Really?” Arthur asked, surveying her with a doubtful expression on his face, his brown eyes flickering over her as if checking just in case there might be physical evidence of her deceit; he may have been a clot, but he knew Deborah, and she couldn’t find it in herself to lie, especially with all of the new worries swimming around her head.

“I miss Martin, of course I do, and it’s strange not having him around.” Deborah informed him swiftly, taking a deep breath to fill her lungs and reduce the clenching around her heart; she wouldn’t allow herself to give in to the misery of before; dull and emptiness maybe, but none of that teary, pitiable mess that she had been drowning in before, “But I’m fine.”

“Okay…” Arthur nodded slowly, but he didn’t sound convinced at all; Deborah didn’t respond, but pouted slightly as she glared out of the window, rolling the yoke in her palm until Arthur cleared his throat and remarked brightly, playing the optimist as ever, “I’m still going to stay here though. It’s nice to get a bit of peace and quiet, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm…” Deborah hummed in muted agreement, allowing Arthur the benefit of the doubt; she wasn’t going to ask him to stay, or send him away, or force him to endure her dreary mood if he didn’t have to. Hopefully he’d be quiet enough that she could mull over her thoughts and try to reassert the ‘coping’ that she had been exercising from the moment that had left her flat.

“Have you got any word games?” Arthur inquired suddenly, almost startling Deborah, who turned and sighed, propping her elbow up on the arm of her seat so that she could rest her cheek on her fist; he smiled and shrugged, and continued as if she had replied in the affirmative, “I know I’m not normally very good, but I can try extra hard so that I’m nearly as good as Skip was.”

Oh… _oh_ , that wasn’t good, that wasn’t what Deborah wanted at all; Arthur _had_ been avoiding her because of Martin’s absence, and now that she thought about it, Deborah realised that he had been doing it because of Martin’s _presence_ as well. That wasn’t to say that Arthur didn’t adore the both of them, you’d have to be a fool not to see that the three of them were close, but _oh…_ _that_ was why Deborah couldn’t recall the last time they had spent time together _properly_.

She’d been so caught up being in love with Martin, fighting with Martin, spending every damn minute with Martin, that while _she_ could rely on the fact that _Arthur_ was always there, Deborah had been neglecting him something awful. He was only trying to cheer her up.

The realisation made that familiar rush of guilty pin pricks creep up and through her chest, and Deborah plastered on a smile, forcing herself to be cheerful for Arthur; she could be sad at home if she must, but at work, at work she was going to get on with her life, for the sake of maintaining what she and Arthur had.

If she accidently pushed Arthur away, there wouldn’t be anyone left.

“Oh, _Arthur_ , no, you don’t have to try and match up to Martin.” Deborah told him firmly, finally turning to face him straight on, reaching across to give his wrist a little squeeze while keep a hold on the controls,  “You’re fine the way that you are.”

“Aw, thanks Deborah!” Arthur exclaimed, his grin settling more comfortably onto his face as he settled back in the seat; Deborah hadn’t even realised that he had been tense until that point, and found herself determined to put the situation to rights, spurred on by the infinitesimal flicker of warmth in her chest.

“You’re welcome.” Deborah replied, adopting a tone that wasn’t quite happy, but an accurate facsimile of her usual, jaunty and drawling tone; she shot Arthur one last smirk before she rolled her shoulders back and faced forwards, plucking at one of the games that she had been inventing when she had been alone, “I’ve got one actually, and it’s not too difficult.”

“Ooh, go on.” Arthur prompted her, running with the bait and slipping back into his optimistic and content ways as he swivelled in his seat and waited attentively for her to provide; this was good, even if the rest of her life was a mess, Deborah had to admit, this bit still felt nice.

“You have to make a story, but each word has to start with a consecutive letter of the alphabet; when one person finishes a sentence, it goes to the next person.” Deborah explained, making sure to speak slowly as she gestured steadily with her free hand; in actuality, it wasn’t a game that she had invented, merely one that she had remembered from her childhood, not that Arthur needed to know that, “The winner is the one to produce the longest sentence.”

“How d’you mean?” Arthur asked, his brow furrowing in confusion; not quite the glittering admiration that Deborah had wanted, but she supposed that she hadn’t really expected any less, and was willing to be patient for the sake of finally having some decent company, some that she wasn’t going to taint with her miserable demeanour.

“Um, for example…” Deborah made a point of pressing her lips together in thought and narrowing her eyes as she rifled through her brain for something that made sense, lifting her hand to trace her chin with the tips of her fingers, “A Blue Cat Drank Everything. A, B, C, D, E…”

“Oh, I get it – that’s a brilliant game!” Arthur sighed proudly, as he sat back in his seat and brought his hands together as if to generate more thought, his tongue darting through his lips as his eyes darted this way and that; perhaps it was a bit too much to ask that he be able to join her games at the level she was used to playing, “Um…”

“I’ll start you off.” Deborah suggested, not waiting for Arthur’s cursory nod before she spoke; she smirked smugly, straightening her back and relishing the oh so hard to find feeling of superiority that she hadn’t grasped in a long time, “Arthur Better Cook Deborah Edible Food. Now you.”

“Okay, um…uh…” Arthur prevaricated, slumping just a fraction more into the seat; Deborah allowed herself to listen to the humming of the engines, and Arthur’s murmurs for only a moment before she interjected.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Deborah remarked, taking care not to seem impatient, merely…prodding encouragingly as she leaned forwards to tweak the controls and silence the alarm before it sounded, catching the flashing light just in time; GERTI may have been giving up the ghost, but Deborah could keep playing her part like this forever if she had to, of that she was absolutely determined.

“Um…I’ve got it!” Arthur declared triumphantly, raising his hands into the air as if calling for attention; Deborah wasn’t expecting much, but she raised her eyebrows expectantly nonetheless as he reeled off, stiltedly and with great laggings pauses, his turn, “Greatly He…Identified…Jelly King…Lying…H, I, J, K, L, M…oh, Miserably Nowhere! Full stop, your go.”

Not quite, but at least he had grasped the general idea; Deborah couldn’t help the small snort that left her lips as she smiled faintly, rolling her eyes and turning back to the skies, content that Arthur was content.

“You’ve taken my soap opera and turned it into a fantasy I see; you’ve missed your calling.” Deborah remarked sarcastically, sparing Arthur a fleeting glance as he nodded and smiled gratefully, not really understanding the joke, but apparently appreciating the tone, “Alright…you stopped at N? Oh, Perfect Queen…Rally Some Troops Under Verona’s…Windows…”

“X-ray Your Zoo!” Arthur exclaimed dramatically, lurching forwards excitedly and making Deborah jump before she had even finished her sentence; he didn’t waste a moment as he glared at her to continue, or declare him the winner, or whatever it was that went on in his head, she couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“ _Yes_ , just about.” Deborah feigned a grimace and shook her head imperceptibly to shake away the residual bewilderment that such highly charged interactions with the man tended to leave; she barely noticed that the nauseous sensation in her guts had begun to lift, and what had felt like a headache of sharp edges was beginning to soften into a pleasant periphery hum all around her, “You have a go at starting one.”

“Oh, alright, I’m starting to get the hang of this.” Arthur chirped, sounding rather pleased with himself as he continued to fidget and shift in his seat, apparently unable to stay still when charged with enjoyment.

“More or less.” Deborah remarked wryly; he wasn’t _awful_ , and it wasn’t as if she had alternative choices of entertainment, so she was willing to adjust their height and trajectory, and wait patiently for him to come up with something that he deemed worthy.

“Right…” Arthur announced, raising his hands and sucking in a breath; the imaginary drumroll was almost tangible, and Deborah was caught between biting back a smile and telling him to hurry up and get on with it, “Arthur Bakes Cookies During Every Friday!”

“Are we chronicling your culinary adventures or am I allowed to deviate from the kitchen?” Deborah inquired dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him across the space between them; this was more like it, a nice, familiar rhythm of communication.

“You don’t have to stay in the kitchen if you don’t want to.” Arthur replied matter-of-factly, pivoted as he was towards her, waiting for her to parry back a response so that he could continue playing; if nothing else, his enthusiasm made up for the …eclectic nature of his turns.

“Why, thank you.” Deborah remarked brightly, humouring him; if she concentrated on this and allowed herself to forget her troubles for an hour or two, then there was no reason that she couldn’t enjoy the companionship, instead of the dull ache that she had been carrying around with her, “Get Him In, Just…”

They carried on for about half an hour, and with each new round of her game, Deborah found herself more content than the last, far too distracted by Arthur’s determination to win and his unbreakable fit of competitive joy to dwell on the fact that Martin wasn’t there, and that she was very much still mourning his loss; every now and then she would pause, and there would be a lull in the conversation as Deborah waited for the resigned but fond exasperation that she had become so used to, but Arthur either didn’t notice, or didn’t want to linger, as he just barrelled on with the game.

“All Bold Cats Die…Even Furry, Greasy, Healthy…Intelligent…Juicy…Kittens.” Arthur reeled off, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he hunched forwards, his elbows propped on his knees; they were just about flying over Paris, and had yet to be disturbed by either passengers or Carolyn, so something must have been going well in the Cabin.

“Hold on, you can’t just list adjectives!” Deborah exclaimed indignantly, shooting a charged glare above reluctantly twitching lips at Arthur in between her checks on the controls; it may have been a throwaway idea, but she was actually getting quite caught up in the simplicity of the game, in a way that she hadn’t for months, “That’s cheating!”

“You never said that when we started.” Arthur replied curtly, shaking his head and pursing his lips with an air of superiority, as if he were winning; the pointed prickle of his eyes on her served only to make it more difficult to argue with him.

Behind them, Deborah thought she heard the flight-deck door swish open, but as no one alerted her to their presence, and the chatter could still just about be heard above the humming of the engines, she chose to ignore it.

“Oh, fine, you can have your problematic kittens.” Deborah huffed dramatically, batting a hand through the air towards Arthur, as she rifled hastily through her mind; if he was going to cheat, then there was no reason that she couldn’t as well, and win, “H, I, J, K…Look, My New Orphan Puppies…Quiz Rigorously Seven…Tricky, Ugly, Vociferous…Wet, Xylophonic, Yellow, Zebras.”

“What on Earth are you two talking about?” Carolyn’s voice interrupted the truncated sound that left Arthur’s mouth as he was about to respond, and Deborah only jumped slightly before glancing over her shoulder; Carolyn was looking between the two of them with eyes filled with confusion, not moving further into the room, “You sound like a pair of broken self-service checkouts.”

“It’s an alphabet game.” Arthur explained, turning in the seat until he could lean over the back, one arm slung over the low ridge; to be fair, it wasn’t the oddest thing that Carolyn had walked in on her crew doing, so Deborah couldn’t muster up any sense of embarrassment.

“Is it really.” Carolyn drawled, still peering between them with a pinched, crinkled edge to her expression; shaking her head as if shaking away her cares, Carolyn stepped closer to lean on the back of Deborah’s seat, “Shouldn’t we be landing soon, Pilot?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes until she could glance over her shoulder at Carolyn, and bat her eyelashes, treating her to a small smile; Carolyn looked surprised by the gesture, but didn’t say a word, for which Deborah was grateful, “I was considering just skipping Paris and taking you all on a spontaneous holiday, but I can land if you want.”

“Please do.” Carolyn replied sharply, regaining her domineering stature; Deborah couldn’t help but exchange a glance with Arthur as Carolyn turned and strode from the flight-deck, enjoying the moment of mutual exasperated humour.

Martin may be gone, but that didn’t meant that anything had really _changed_ ; things were back to the way that had been before, except _now_ , they had the joy of five years added bonding, and experience’s influence. For the first time in a week, Deborah felt almost content with the direction that her life was taking.

So, shaking her hair behind her shoulders, and plucking her hat from where she had let it fall to the floor, Deborah made sure that her head was properly adorned, before leaning forwards and holding down the intercom button; this had always been her favourite thing to do on flights; she just needed to get back into the swing of it.

“This is your pilot speaking. We’ll be landing in Paris within the next twenty minutes, so if it so suits you, you could return to your seats, engage your seatbelts, and put your tray in the upright positions.” Deborah announced into the intercom, glancing sideways at Arthur and relinquishing her previous efforts not to smirk and seem like she was enjoying herself, “If not, then feel from to enjoy the, what I assume is a thrilling, experience of toppling down the middle of the aisle.”

Arthur stayed in the flight-deck during the landing, which went smoothly considering that Deborah had to do it herself; not that she couldn’t, but she had become incredibly used to letting things slip on the basis that Martin would pick up after her. However, when the time came to see off the passengers, he had to leave, and all of a sudden the buoyant atmosphere that she had garnered seemed at risk of being punctured.

She turned in her seat as she watched Arthur rise from his seat and squeeze through to the back of the flight-deck, trying to keep the faint frown from her face; moving on she may have been, but Deborah couldn’t quite appreciate the sanctity of silence quite yet. Everything felt just that little bit emptier without the persistent rumble of the plane around them.

Martin wasn’t there, but he wasn’t the only friend that she had.

“Hey, Arthur.” Deborah called out, before she could change her mind; she curled her fingers over the back of her seat and peered across the room at Arthur, who paused and hummed to acknowledge her statement, “If you still wanted to keep me company, we could do something this afternoon, if you wanted, that is.”

“Oh, yeah, that would fun.” Arthur remarked, with genuine enthusiasm, as he placed his hands on the open door, “What sort of thing do you want to do?”

“What sounds the most fun to you right now?” Deborah inquired carefully; the answer could have been anything, but in the mood that she was in, she was willing to go along with any of the limited sources of entertainment that Fitton provided.

“We could go bowling?” Arthur suggested, after a moment’s thought; that wasn’t too bad of an idea, Deborah had to admit, as he continued talking as he was wont to do, “I’m not great at it yet, but I’m getting better.”

“Fantastic.” Deborah replied swiftly, rapping her hands against the back of her chair before nodding towards the Cabin, plastering on a smile, “A guaranteed good day then. We’ll discuss it when you’ve seen to our passengers.”

“Alright, will do.” Arthur chirped, smiling and then giving her a little wave as he passed into the Galley, “See you in a bit, Deborah.”

Then Deborah was left alone, to complete the post-landing checks on her own.

oOoOoOo

To her mild surprise, Deborah actually quite enjoyed bowling with Arthur; he wasn’t very good at all, which made winning a little less fun, but after an hour Deborah asked the owners to put up the lane barriers, and the two of them set up a little competition which involved calculating the angle and trajectory, and flinging the balls so that they bounced at speed towards the pins.

It definitely added an element of danger to the game, and when Deborah had gotten over the little voice in her head that whispered about how Martin would be good at this, with the angles and the calculations, she felt lighter than she had in a very long time, filled with warmth and enjoyment for the first time in a week, as they laughed and cheered, and Arthur actually lifted her off her feet when he swept her into a congratulatory hug in return for her victory.

But eventually Deborah had started to check her watch, and the time came for them to go their separate ways and head home, as the anxious tick that had developed at the back of Deborah’s throat of late began to nag at the corners of her mind; Martin would be off of work by now.

And yet, as Deborah bustled around her empty flat, and slipped into the shower, then her pyjamas, and then into bed, pulling her laptop onto her lap and shucking up the covers as she propped herself against the headboard, she couldn’t quite reach the depths of depression that plagued her just the night before. There was none of the lethargy, or the swirling in her guts, nor the icy tricking through her veins; simply a sad, but endurable calm, and a shiver of excitement as the video messager opened on her screen.

Then Martin’s face filled the screen, pale and freckled, surrounded by a dark and pitched halo of computer light, but still the best thing that she had seen all day; bolstered by a rush of burning affection, Deborah felt her face light up of its own accord, and she beamed at him, settling more comfortably into her pillows.

“Hello You.” Deborah drawled in greeting, her voice almost glowing as it reached her ears; god, it might ache to have him so far away, but getting to see and speak to Martin felt like the best thing in the world, enough to make her skin fizzle and her fingers flex with the need to reach out and touch him.

“Deborah.” Martin replied, almost a relieved sigh, his cheeks flushing red as the corners of his eyes crinkled with the force of the tired, yet bright grin on his face, as his gaze flickered shamelessly up and down, cataloguing her expression; his head grew in size a fraction as he presumably leaned even closer to his own laptop.

“Martin.” Deborah shot back, smirking at the momentary bewilderment that crossed his face; he really _was_ exhausted, she noted, as Martin ran a hand over the back of his neck, through his hair, ruffling it, then blinking hard.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Martin cleared his throat, then let out a nervous laugh as he began to stare, once again, at her image, as if he were seeing the face of an angel or a life raft; there was something a little off, but Deborah hoped that it was just the stress of a new job and a new country, so simply smiled at him as she waited for him to collect his thoughts, “Hi, hello – _god_ I’ve missed looking at you today.”

“You’re feeling soppy today I take it?” Deborah murmured, sliding down into her pillows so that she could bring her knees up to her chest and tuck her laptop against her, so that they could have been talking face to side, warm and comfortable; even though she wanted him to be happy, there was something nice about having Martin’s complete attention centred on _her_.

“A bit, yes.” Martin replied, nodding wearily; then his eyes squeezed shut as a yawn overtook him, and he shifted away from the camera to rub at his eyes with his curled fist, looking much like a disgruntled cat, but with black bags under his eyes.

“You look exhausted.” Deborah remarked, lifting her hand to trail her finger over the screen where Martin’s cheeks should have been, if he had been within arm’s reach; Martin rolled his eyes and shrugged, but she continued, carried by the wash of love that rippled gently from her toes to her nose, “How _was_ today?”

“I-I’m just tired, that’s all.” Martin explained, smiling wanly, but blinking slowly, as he did when he was fighting off the dastardly clutches of sleep; Deborah nodded encouragingly, just a tilt of his head, and he carried on, shifting as if he were trying to lie down with his computer propped at head height, “It’s uh…it’s been a long day, there’s um, t-there’s been a lot of paper work, obviously, because it’s my first week, a-and they’ve been getting me to do lots of little flights to see how good I am at different things so…”

“So…?” Deborah pushed curiously, pushing her hair behind her ears as she reacted reflexively to his movements, shifting and settling her laptop in the crook of her arms, as Martin trailed off, obviously reluctant to talk about his ordeal; she needed to know, this would never work if they didn’t talk to each other properly.

“So, I’d much rather hear what you’ve been up to.” Martin said decisively, inhaling deeply and setting his jaw; when Deborah didn’t argue, out of concern for his emotional state, his eyes flickered once again over her face, and he remarked, “You look, well, you look really great tonight, compared to – you always look great but, especially today.”

“It’s because I’m smiling, and I wasn’t for the past six days.” Deborah replied wryly, smiling a little wider just to make a point; she couldn’t say that she was happy, per say, but the misery that had been dragging her down wasn’t pounding quite so violently in her ears as it had been.

“Yeah…” Martin sighed, blushing a little darker, possibly in shame; that was the last thing that Deborah wanted, but she could only watch him fondly as he fussed and sighed on the other end of the video call, as his dejection was completely understandable, “it’s been a tough week, b-being away from each other.”

“Believe me, darling, I’m the last person that needs informing.” Deborah drawled, letting a slither of lethargy enter her tone; pretending to be cheerful could only get her so far, and it was too late at night to be anything but sleepy and pliant.

“Yes, of course, obviously.” Martin stuttered awkwardly, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth; he really _did_ seem out of sorts, and Deborah wished that it would suddenly become easier to talk to each other from so far away, even though she knew that it would probably never be the same as when they had been together, “So, um, what _have_ you been up to?”

“Just a flight to Paris and back.” Deborah told him, putting into her expression every ounce of how dull and uninteresting it had been; it was difficult, keeping the balance between misery and enjoyment just right so as not to make Martin think that he was too missed, or too easily dismissed, “And then Arthur took me bowling, so that was interesting.”

“He’s doing a good job at cheering you up then?” Martin asked quickly, his eyes widening and his brows leaping up seriously; he was worried about her, that much hadn’t slipped past Deborah’s radar, not that she would let him know just how not alright she really was, “You’re not so…anymore?”

Sad? She was more sad than she had been since she had first lost her daughter…but, even though Martin could read it in her face, she wasn’t going to sour his big opportunity.

“I’m still very much…but yes, it’s a two way street.” Deborah admitted, though she made an effort to seem unaffected, and not to grimace as Martin’s expression fell, and he moved as if he were grasping his computer tightly, his blue eyes dewy, “We all miss you, even Carolyn.”

“Hmmm, I haven’t spoken to Carolyn this week though.” Martin replied, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing as he pushed his hand through his hair; Deborah knew that she should have been demonstrating great interest in what he was saying, but she was far too distracted by the fluttering of concern over the exhaustion that was growing more obvious in the lines on his face, as well as the sluggish edge to his movements, “Neither’s Herc actually, so I don’t know what’s going on there.”

“I think she’s just grumpy because he’s facilitating the loss of her free pilot.” Deborah remarked flippantly, then immediately regretted it at the indecipherable expression on Martin’s face, “Even if she was pushing you to take the job, she misses you.”

“That’s nice to know, I suppose.” Martin muttered, quirking his eyebrows; the picture on Deborah’s screen tilted momentarily, and when Martin’s face reasserted itself, she assumed that he was lying down completely, with his laptop on his chest, “What else do you want to talk about?”

“I want to know what’s happening in your life, what your week’s been like.” Deborah insisted sternly, giving in to the nagging tug behind her eyes that wanted to go to sleep, and instead bringing the laptop to her chest so that she could slip down her pillows and lie on her side, pulling her covers up to her shoulders and tipping her computer on its side beside her head; it wouldn’t make for a good picture, but if the darker dusting of a blush across Martin’s cheeks were any indictor, as well as the affectionate smile, he didn’t mind, “You’ve been quite hush hush about it all.”

Actually, Deborah mused, this _was_ nicer; something about it felt much more intimate, as if they could have been lying in bed together, so long as she didn’t give in to the aching need to reach out and touch him.

“I’m living it.” Martin retorted, rolling his eyes as if done with the world in general; immediately Deborah felt guilty for pushing, and glanced down at the keys to avoid Martin’s gaze, running the tip of her finger along the touch pad, “I will tell you, just – just not now, I’m tired and I miss home.”

“Well, what do _you_ want to talk about, while we lay here, in bed, curled up with our laptops?” Deborah inquired softly, daring to lift her eyes and take in Martin’s face again; she wanted to see him, talk to him, but Martin was right…and conversation wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded.

The first few times that they had spoken had gone much the same way, with stilted back and forths that dissolved into platitudes and declarations, and then teary goodbyes as they both realised that if they didn’t stop, one of them would be getting on a plane in the next half hour; and that couldn’t happen, and they had to start coping in their new lives, no matter how difficult that was.

Martin didn’t reply straight away; his mouth opened, and his eyes narrowed, eyebrows pinching in the middle, but then no sound came out, and his whole face turned scarlet as his watched Deborah with a shadow of affectionate suspicion that she was well accustomed to.

“I-I’m not entirely sure what you’re hinting, but if it’s what I think it is…” Martin took a deep breath before he finished, which was long enough to pique Deborah’s curiosity, as she propped herself up on one elbow and quirked an eyebrow at him, “I’m-not-sure-I-want-to-have-video-sex-in-Herc’s-spare-room.”

“I wasn’t suggesting anything.” Deborah laughed, a slight thing that quickly crumbled into giggles that shook her chest and filled it with the sort of wonderful, raging fluttering that she had been missing since Martin had left her; she heard Martin chuckle nervously, biting down on his bottom lip, and made haste to catch her breath, and bat her eyelashes at him, lowering her arm and laying her head on the crook of her elbow, “But if the location’s your only issue, then you better start looking for your own place, and quickly.”

“Yeah – hold on.” Martin’s pleasant chuckle was halted as he jolted slightly, and his eyes darted this way and that, as if the walls might have been listening, “Are you saying that that’s actually an option? The, uh, th-the video…”

“Only if you’re nice to me.” Deborah purred salaciously, letting her tongue dart out to wet her lips; she was well aware that now wasn’t the best time to flirt, as absolutely nothing would happen and she’d just make herself more miserable, but she couldn’t help needing to see Martin blush and try to flirt back.

“I’m always nice to you.” Martin murmured, his image shimmering slightly as he pulled him laptop closer to his face, which was almost glowing with the small, yet beautiful smile that adorned his lips.

At that, a rush of warmth filled her chest, and Deborah couldn’t help but falter with as she blinked slowly at him, thrown from the room and back to every time they had swapped that particular mantra; remembering every time that those words had left Martin’s lips, and it was so many times, felt like having her breath stolen from her lungs, so perfect that she could have cried for every time she had laughed them away.

“Yes…” Deborah sighed warmly, her heart flung once again through a loop by how much she missed him, how much she longed to have that perfect, wonderful man in her arms, instead of flat and on the other side of a computer screen, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” Martin replied, softly, as if he were keeping a secret, kept just for the two of them; how she could have ever doubted the sincerity that seeped from his every feature was a mystery, one that Deborah would never forgive herself for, “I miss you.”

But what was done was done, and there would be no going back; it could have been worse. In another world, Deborah might have never seen Martin again; but here and now, they could talk, and when Martin got a break, in a month or two, they could be together for a day or two.

Now, it was important that she didn’t let Martin go to sleep; he might have been tired, and so was she, but they would keel over mid-conversation if it meant that Deborah could steal as many seconds of his time as possible.

“Would you like to hear a secret.” Deborah asked, deliberately swallowing her sentimental and soppy demeanour and instead grinning, shoving her hair behind her shoulders so that she could lean in a little closer to the laptop screen, “One that you can’t tell Herc, because it will inevitably trickle back to Carolyn?”

“Well, I would now.” Martin exclaimed, the corners of his lips curling upwards as his eyebrows knitted, and his picture wobbled from side to side, jostled by his movements; of course, now that he wasn’t responsible for her behaviour, Martin was interested in her scheming. She had _known_ that his fussing was all for the job.

“All the jobs that MJN’s got in the next month…”  Deborah began, lifting her hand to gesture dramatically, opening her palm to the world as she smirked; Martin leaned even closer to his computer, eagerly clinging to her words, so she gave in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “They’re my doing. I asked my brother to use us for transport with his company.”

“So you called in a favour?” Martin asked, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he stifled another yawn; it was nice to be able to share something, as if they were still together in body as well as in spirit.

“More or less.” Deborah replied coyly, laying her head down on her pillow, and dragging her laptop closer, curling her arm around the back of it until she could rest it against her chest.

“You’re right, she’ll hate that, even if it does keep you afloat.” Martin remarked, rolling his eyes when Deborah only smiled and shrugged; it wasn’t her responsibility to feel guilty for doing something good out of the most charitable corners of her heart.

“Well, Carolyn may be waiting for the end, but I’m going to make sure we never get there.” Deborah murmured determinedly, inhaling deeply and feeling as if her blood was filled with a renewed energy; this was the first time that she had worded that desire, or acknowledged that she needed MJN outside of the safety of her own mind, and somehow, it made it more real.

Maybe it was the lifelong belief that Deborah Richardson could do anything, or perhaps it was the way that Martin was looking at her, with a smug little smile on his lips and an odd light in his eyes.

“Yes, that’s um, yes.” Martin replied, clearing his throat and running his hand over the lower half of his face, huffing through his nose and shaking his head; then he looked directly back at the camera, and Deborah felt the familiar flittering in her stomach, “I’ve never been prouder.”

“Really?” Deborah inquired innocently, raising her eyebrows; Martin? Proud? Now that _was_ a strange thought.

“Yes.” Martin stated matter-of-factly, nodding and pressing his lips together as Deborah quirked her eyebrows and glanced away; when she glanced back, feeling that she might be able to cope with his inspection, Martin had apparently decided that that was enough, and had plastered on a calm and collected façade, saying stoicly, “Now, tell me how Verity is.”

“Gladly.” Deborah replied, glad for the respite; getting emotional was far too painful after a while, but there was no reason that they couldn’t talk and look at each other, and just be pleased with the time that they could snatch.

This would get easier…eventually.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

She may not have had to be in work until noon, but Deborah was still managing to lag when it came to leaving the house; now that it was just her there to fly and sort out the paperwork, it was necessary that Deborah made it to the airfield on time and pulled her weight, but despite her best efforts, two weeks after Martin’s departure, she still couldn’t manage it.

The weather was pleasant, the sun was shining faintly through the windows, leaving dappled images where she hadn’t washed away the dust and cobwebs, and Deborah had been awake since the chime of her clock, pottering around in her pyjamas, watching the news with a bowl of cereals in her lap. Deborah had even skimmed through her emails and taken the required actions for those that were of importance, which was quite a feat all things considered.

It was still jarring, knowing that she couldn’t simply call Martin and have him come over, or prepare a large breakfast and let the ambling chatter wash over her; as much as Deborah tried, she couldn’t quite muster more than a faint and fleeting acceptance of life as it was, making lazy mornings…lazy, and altogether unsatisfying, no matter how lovely the light breeze the danced through the open window might have been on her bare feet.

Now it was half past eleven, and Deborah was only just in her uniform, hopping to get her shoes on as she tied plucked the post from where it lay on the mat, only to stick it between her teeth to make it easier to hurry back to the kitchen where she had left her flight-bag, open with its contents strewn across the table. Perhaps she _should_ have paid attention when Martin had tried to train her up and secure some sort of scheduling; there would be less scrambling around at the very least.

At this rate she’d barely make it to the airfield on time; hopefully the client wouldn’t either, which was a real possibility due to the awful habit Carolyn had of lying about what time their flights were just so that she could have everyone in the porta-cabin early.

Deborah was just slipping on her coat, finally having rifled through the bank statements that she had carried around in her mouth before remembering that she had them, flight-beg zipped and filled with everything she needed, reaching out to grasp the door handle and sending silent thanks to the universe for letting her leave without any more fuss, when the phone rang.

Damn, Deborah cursed inwardly as she dropped her bag onto the floor beside the door and marched back across the sitting room to where she had conveniently forgotten her mobile; at least something good had come out of what she could only consider a very rude disruption of her exit. Her distemper disappeared immediately however, replaced by a curious longing, when she saw the name on the little flashing screen, and she cut off the shrill ringing to press the device to her ear.

“Hello Martin.” Deborah drawled pleasantly, forcing herself to sound cheerful and chirpy despite the rush she was in; it didn’t take too much effort, as even with the time limit, she was prepared to risk being late for the sake of hearing Martin’s voice, “I wasn’t expecting you to call until later.”

“ _No, I’m calling now-”_ Martin replied hastily, his voice crackling down the line; Deborah knew before he continued that something wasn’t quite right, and a prickle of trepidation had her taking a step back to lower herself into the sofa, her free hand clenching imperceptibly around the tatty threaded arms, “ _oh, wait, hold on, I-I’ve got to – here, talk to Herc-”_

“Martin what are you doing?” Deborah demanded, the dip between her eyebrows pinching as she glared at the edge of the coffee table, doing her best to picture Martin scrambling with the phone; she wasn’t quick enough though, as his voice was replaced by a frantic clunking, as if the phone were being hurled across the room, and Martin was gone.

 _“Sorry Deborah, he’s scrambled away already.”_ Herc’s voice filtered into her ear, wry and unconcerned, but genuinely apologetic; he was the last person that Deborah wanted to talk to, but she was too morbidly intrigued to feel much more than a flicker of disdain that it was him and not Martin that she could hear.

“What’s he doing?” Deborah asked tautly, remembering to be polite regardless of the uncomfortable worry that was clenching at her lungs, threatening to curl in on itself; for once, she was completely at a loss as to what was going on, and that wasn’t a pleasant circumstance at all, especially when she was too far away to do anything.

“ _If I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure.”_ Herc replied, the wince in his tone almost tangible; that wasn’t helpful, or encouraging, and it did nothing to reassure Deborah as to Martin’s safety…although Herc was trustworthy enough to tell her if things were truly bad, she supposed.

“Well then why is he calling?” Deborah sighed, slumping back into the sofa’s cushions and closing her eyes as she pinched her fingers at the bridge of her nose, pressing the heel of her palm over her closed lids; helpless confusion wasn’t something that she really enjoyed experiencing, especially when there were a million other things to be doing that morning, “Is he alright?”

“ _Yes, Martin’s fine_.” Herc assured her; the carelessness in his voice made Deborah want to throttle him for not understanding her fear, but perhaps that was simply the ingrained distaste for the man that she still couldn’t quite shake, despite all of her efforts for Carolyn’s sake, “ _Other than that, I’ve been sworn to secrecy_.”

“Herc – is Martin in trouble, or is this some sort of a surprise?” Deborah asked through gritted teeth, letting her hand fall to her side and her eyes open so that she could scowl full force at someone who would never see it, “Don’t give me your smarm, because I’m not in the mood.”

 _“I understand, Deborah, I really do_.” Herc remarked unhelpfully; she didn’t want his sympathy, but she let him finish for the sake of pouting and wondering bitterly what was so important that Martin had called her then shafted her, “ _There is nothing wrong with Martin, but…I suppose it might be something of a surprise.”_

“You don’t sound too sure about that.” Deborah replied airily, comforted at least fractionally by the lack of true concern in Herc’s tone; that didn’t mean that she would like whatever it was that Martin was fussing over, but at least she didn’t have to worry too much, as she checked her watch and grimaced at how late she was going to be because of this.

“ _Oh no, you’ll be surprised, but I don’t think it’s the sort of surprise that you’re expecting_.” Herc drawled, evidently taking a degree of pleasure from teasing her; even from afar, he was still a git of monumental proportions, albeit a well-meaning one, “ _But like I said, I’ve sworn an oath and can’t say a word more.”_

“Fine…” Deborah groaned, slumping and letting the tension leave her body despite keeping the phone pressed to her ear; even though she would be late, the nagging prickle in her guts wouldn’t let her put the phone down until Martin had returned to assure her of his safety himself, so Deborah did what was societally appropriate, and tried to engage Herc in a way that wasn’t needlessly hostile given everything he had done for Martin in the past few weeks, “Have you spoken to Carolyn recently?”

“ _Only briefly, and she was very curt with me_.” Herc replied, the muted frivolity in his voice replaced with genuine concern; that wasn’t good at all, and Deborah immediately felt guilty for bringing it up when she _knew_ that things had been off with Carolyn lately, “ _She hasn’t said anything to you has she?”_

“No, but she’s been overly cheerful, which is a bad sign.” Deborah told him honestly, pursing her lips as she sat forwards, restlessly propping her elbows on her knees, he chin between her hands while one continued to press the phone to her ear, “Even Arthur’s starting to avoid all of the ‘love’.”

“ _I’m not sure how to get her back on side when I’m all the way in Switzerland_.” Herc bemoaned, in such a way that Deborah had to bite her tongue to stop herself from reacting to the sinking sensation in her chest; damn her newly sympathetic demeanour to hell, and then all the way back, for making her feel so responsible for upsetting those around her.

“As much as your love life _thrills_ me Herc, I’m only going to give you _one_ bit of advice, and then I’m never going to interfere ever again.” Deborah sighed, adopting a no nonsense, distanced tone so as not to make him think that she cared; there was only so much misery that she could endure, and Herc’s superior, _smarm_ was too much by far, “It’s a lot more difficult for her to play aloof when to do so Carolyn has to make the _effort_ to call; if you called _her_ , or perhaps found yourself in the same area, then there would be no problem at all.”

“ _So she’s not gone off me in my absence then?”_ Herc asked cautiously, and Deborah didn’t bother trying not to roll her eyes; for someone who thought that they were the best thing to happen to the world, Herc sure could be an overly trusting push-over. It was infuriating that he wasn’t hateful enough for Deborah to do anything other than tell him the complete and utter truth, and hope that he understood.

“Dear lord no.” Deborah groaned, praying that there would be no more of this conversation; she would take needlessly worrying over this torture, “I’m not saying anything more than that, because the thought is almost detestable.”

 _“Well, thank you for your generosity nonetheless_.” Herc retorted, in that way he had that made it sound as if he were pandering to a lesser being; Deborah was about to say something sarcastic, had it on the tip of her tongue, but was cut off by a rush of fluttering distraction as Herc’s voice drifted further from the receiver, “ _Oh, here he is – Martin_.”

Deborah tensed as she waited for the clattering in her ear of cease, and her free hand wandered to grip at her other elbow, nails digging into her sleeves as she anticipated any kind of emotional turmoil in Martin’s voice; thankfully, it never came.

“ _Deborah!_ ” Martin exclaimed on the other end of the phone, like a drowning man gasping his first lungful of air; there was small relief in hearing no trace of wound nor upset, but Deborah still couldn’t let him get away with prevarication, “ _Hi, sorry, I-I had to go and  - had to…um, other things. But I’m here now-”_

“Are you okay?” Deborah inquired calmly, pushing a hand through her hair, and taking a deep breath ready to stop Martin in his tracks if he tried to stutter his way out of an explanation; she would be patient, but she wouldn’t stand for his usual avoidance, “You don’t normally call this early in the day.”

“ _Yes, yes, I’m good.”_ Martin replied hastily, honestly, Deborah imagined; so not avoiding the question then, and therefore not deserving of the grilling that she could have inflicted upon him.

“Just wanted a chat then?” Deborah asked pleasantly, shifting on the sofa and sitting back, folding one leg over the other to try and get comfortable and alleviate the anxiousness that had been gnawing at her stomach from the moment she had seen his name on her phone.

“ _Um, not as such_.” Martin replied sheepishly, probably drawing his bottom lip through his teeth and flushing with embarrassment; a flicker of affectionate hope that Deborah hadn’t even realised was there was extinguished by a lull of disappointment, “ _I, um, this isn’t a long chat, I just needed to let you know before I forgot.”_

“So we’re still doing the long chat later?” Deborah clarified, ignoring for a moment the promise of news; even two weeks on, she was still held captive by the miserable ache that clung to every sentimental string of intimacy that she could snatch from afar, “I’m missing your face.”

“ _Yes, we’re still chatting later_.” Martin said quickly; if she wasn’t mistaken, he was rushing around just like she had been, the little shit, keeping her waiting while he got himself ready for work, “ _I-I miss your face too_.”

“Good.” Deborah replied shortly, now confident in the knowledge that Martin was fine, and that he was just worrying her for nothing; she glanced at her watch again, wary of how long it would take her to get to the airfield on time, “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“ _Oh, uh, just that I…I got a weekend off, this weekend so-”_ Martin began to explain matter-of-factly, his voice moving near and far among the clacking that filled Deborah’s ears; eyes narrowing in confusion as she stared aimlessly across her sitting room, she cut him off.

“Really?” Deborah interrupted, having to press the cool plastic of her phone against her ear to hear him properly as he cursed under his breath, following a small thud as if he were tripping; of all the news Martin could have delivered, that had never crossed her mind, making it difficult to feel the rush of thrill that she knew she _should_ have been experiencing, “You’ve only been there two weeks.”

“ _I know, but I managed to, t-to negotiate a weekend off, so I’m coming home, not tomorrow, because tomorrow’s Friday, b-but I’ll be back in England on Saturday morning.”_ Martin reeled all of this off at high speed, running out of breath as he concluded; something about his declaration didn’t sit quite right, but Deborah made a conscious decision to swallow that back and embrace the flittering warmth that alighted in her chest.

“Oh…Martin, that’s lovely, darling, it really is.” Deborah sighed softly, relishing that single moment of fondness; then the rational side of her mind took its rightful place, and she carried on encouragingly, “But wouldn’t you rather spend your first weekend off getting accustomed to your new surroundings? I _can_ wait if you’d rather-”

“ _No, I’ve already booked the flights_.” Martin interjected, in a tone that begged no argument; there really wasn’t a way _to_ argue with that kind of certainty, not that Deborah had enough willpower to truly want to, especially as she listened to Martin state that, “ _I want to come back and see you_.”

“Well, I-” Deborah was about to say something, she wasn’t sure what, something romantic and self-sacrificial; except, the clock in the kitchen chimed like it did when the hour arrived, and her need to get out of the house won over her desire to keep talking to him, shutting down her ability to do anything more than accept, “In that case I’ll come and meet you at the airport.”

“ _Thank you.”_ Martin exclaimed, sounding relieved, as if he hadn’t believed that she could be so easily swayed; Deborah picked at the frayed edge of the sofa as she waited patiently for him to carry on, “ _I’ll give you the exact details tonight, so that you don’t have to run around._ ”

“Okay, Darling.” Deborah replied with a forced brightness; and yet, she made no effort to end the conversation and get out of the door, finding herself starved of the energy or impulse needed to tear herself away from her phone.

“ _Okay…_ ” Martin repeated, his voice further away than before; then there was a moment of silence, and more clunking, in which Deborah pressed her lips together and traced her eyes over the edge of the coffee table, before Martin spoke again, “ _I um, I have to get ready to go to work now. Sorry…”_

“Don’t be sorry, it’s alright.” Deborah reassured him with an exaggerated amount of cheer that he must have seen through; this was her out though, she was well aware, and regardless of what she wanted, Deborah had to let go, for her own sake more than anything else, “I’ll talk to you later then…I love you.”

“ _I love you too_.” Martin chirped swiftly; definitely in a hurry then, Deborah mused, imagining him bustling about Herc’s small Swiss flat, in his new sparkling uniform, saying into the speaker, “ _Bu-bye_!”

Then the crackling in her ear was replaced by the monotonous dial tone, and Deborah had to act quickly to quench the fleeting shimmer of dejection that rippled through her skin; then she sighed, and inhaled again, and was ready to get up, get in the car, and start coming up with excuses for why she was so late.

If the worst happened, Deborah was now entirely prepared to get Martin back on the phone and have _him_ endure Carolyn’s wrath on her behalf.

oOoOoOo

The passenger _was_ late, to Deborah’s immense relief, though she was careful not to show it as she had slipped into the porta-cabin and dropped behind her desk to check over the paperwork; the only problem was that Carolyn had been so preoccupied scolding her, that the both of them had forgotten that flight plans needed to be filled in, or planes prepared.

Now they were all just sitting around the porta-cabin, Deborah sprawled out in the sofa, her head propped up on one arm, her feet crossed at the ankle atop the other, while Carolyn sat behind Deborah’s desk and Arthur rested idly on his wheelie chair, feet up on the overturned wastepaper basket that he had commandeered.

“So Martin’s coming back to visit us on Saturday, and he’ll get here in the morning?” Arthur asked slowly, repeating a variation of the same question that he must have asked at least twice already; he was watching Deborah with wide and eager eyes, having even paused in his swaying to await her answer.

“That’s what he said.” Deborah replied wearily, sparing him only a glance before she turned her attention back to the edge of her thumb, where a flake of dry skin was enough to divert all of her attention into, to create a peaceful void away from the flurry of disconcerting emotions that were whirling through her mind.

It was enough to give her a headache; the tickling joy that had first spread throughout her pores had slowly but surely made way to a bout of nerves, of anxieties and unpleasant churning doubts at the idea of seeing Martin again so soon. What if she wasn’t prepared? What if he changed his mind? What if absence didn’t make the heart grow?

Too much to worry about, when all Deborah wanted to do was be happy to fall back into his arms; she couldn’t even do that right.

“So, realistically, I could throw a party on the airfield, and we could all come and have lunch and just all hang out together on Saturday, like a surprise party?” Arthur inquired, with the air of a businessman, gesticulating decidedly with his expression pinched in thought; if only she could have been as pleased at the idea of Martin’s return as he was, Deborah could have silenced the nattering in the back of her mind.

“I’m not sure-” Deborah started wanly, but she never got to even complete the thought.

“Arthur, as lovely an idea as that is, I think that Martin might have slightly more important things on his mind when he comes back.” Carolyn interjected from her perch, apparently having been listening to the entire conversation; she looked pointedly at Deborah, and met her gaze long enough to get her message across, “I imagine he and Deborah would prefer to spend Saturday unburdened by surprise parties.”

Of course, Deborah thought dourly, as she smiled weakly across the room at her employer, that was what she should have been dwelling on; she shouldn’t be fretting, she should have been planning a romantic evening, anticipating the heated and passionate reunion.

“Oh…” Arthur sighed, nodding, his posture sagging slightly in disappointment; then his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows came together, and Deborah could have laughed at how quickly his expression grew wide in realisation, “ _oh…”_

“Thank you, Carolyn.” Deborah remarked loudly and clearly, stopping Arthur before he could say anything more, and hoisting herself into more of a sitting position, until she could feel the arm of the sofa press against her lower back; it _would_ be nice to have everyone back together, and to pretend for a while that nothing had changed, “But there’s no reason that we couldn’t all get together on Sunday, if you wanted to Arthur.”

“Ooh, Sunday’s better.” Arthur replied sagely, presumably already planning some sort of extraordinary event; Deborah supposed that it was nice to have someone make the effort, as she didn’t think she had the emotional energy to manage more than a light breakfast, at a push, “Or, or we could go to one of those restaurants that do special dinners on Sundays for parties and things.”

“Anything would be better than poisoning Martin before he has to go back to work.” Carolyn muttered, her brow quirking at that statement; she plastered on a smile and looked between the two of them, with a cheer that she rarely possessed, “I don’t see why we couldn’t all chip in and make it a sort of celebratory event.”

“Yes, that might be a good idea.” Deborah noted gratefully, taking care to smile in return, and not simply slide back down into the sofa; any other day and she might have rebelled at the apparent show of good will, out of pride or suspicion, but now, she couldn’t bear the idea of anything but peace until her emotions settled, “Thank you, I’ll ask him about it and let you know tonight; it’s a wonderful idea Arthur…thank you.”

“No worries.” Arthur beamed, launching out of his seat and striding to sit behind what had been Martin’s desk, retrieving Deborah’s computer from where it sat untouched at Carolyn’s elbow, and tapping away at the keys; probably to set his plan in motion before anyone could change their mind, “It’s brilliant that we all get to be back together so soon.”

“That it is.” Deborah sighed, and allowed herself to settle back, pressing her hands over her eyes; it was remarkable how tired emotional turmoil could make one feel. She should have remembered that, but it came as a surprise nonetheless.

“You don’t seem as pleased as you should, Deborah.” Carolyn remarked, an unusual edge of concern lacing her tone; Deborah didn’t give her the benefit of looking at her, instead dropping her hands to fold across her waist, as the other woman asked, “Is Martin alright?”

“Yes, he’s, um…he’s doing well.” Deborah replied wanly, unable to come up with a suitable lie; not that there would have been one appropriate…or necessary, given that as far as she knew, everything really was fine, “I haven’t heard any complaints.”

“Or much of anything?” Carolyn concluded for her, and when Deborah spared her a glance, it was to see that she was being skewered with a demanding yet intriguing glare and a decidedly cocked eyebrow; she never should have been allowed to learn how to read between the lines of Deborah’s prevarications.

“No.” Deborah answered honestly, pouting her lips as she stared back across the room, “How do you-”

“I employed him for five years, I know what the ridiculous man is like.” Carolyn retorted, scoffing and rolling her eyes at what must have been a myriad of memories; then her face seemed to soften, though Deborah must have been imagining it, “Just as I know what you’re like after nearly twelve years; are _you_ alright?”

“Yes, I’m…” Deborah could have lied, but she found that for once she didn’t want to; there was hardly any point, now, with the way that things were, “I wasn’t expecting to see him so soon. I haven’t yet had time to adjust to having to let him go when it’s over.”

“That’s okay though, because even when he goes away, Martin’ll still come back.” Arthur interjected, oblivious to the misery that was clogging Deborah’s sinuses and putting a dampener on everything that she surveyed, as he barely even lifted his eyes from the computer screen, “He promised.”

“Yes, that he did.” Deborah replied, forcing herself not to choke on the sudden rush of emotion that caught her off guard; no, not now, not today, she could wallow another time, Deborah told herself as she sat forwards without warning and clapped her palms on her knees, “Now…was I supposed to be doing something with the plane today?”

“We’re popping across to Belfast to pick up an editor for that modelling agency that hired us.” Carolyn answered, letting the subject drop in a show of sympathy that Deborah greatly appreciated, “Lord knows how they found us.”

“Ah yes, the modelling agency.” Deborah repeated, plastering on a smirk so as not to raise any suspicions that hadn’t already been raised in regards to her brother’s as yet undiscovered favour; she rose to her feet and made her way over to the desks, reasserting the mood needed for a successful flight, “I suppose I should make a start on the paperwork.”

oOoOoOo

It was far too early on a Saturday morning to be awake, and yet Deborah wasn’t simply awake; she was wrapped up in jeans and Martin’s old fleece, wide awake and standing patiently in the already bustling airport, waiting for Martin to appear among the crowd, his flight having arrived recently, barely late at all.

She had managed to move past the dread that had been eating away at her from the inside, and now Deborah could only lay claim to a nervous tickle that rippled through her veins and made every unoccupied space inside of her flutter in anticipation of Martin; a tangible, real, Martin that she could hold onto and breathe in.

Time didn’t quite seem to me moving in the right direction, but just as Deborah was about to glance down at her watch, Martin appeared between the many people milling around, ginger hair ruffled from his hours on the plane, and bags tugging at his coat making it look larger than it actually was; none of that struck her nearly as much as the wide smile that stretched across his red cheeks, as Martin’s eyes fell on her, and he hurried to meet her, oblivious to how clumsy the effort made him appear.

“Deborah!” Martin exclaimed, and before Deborah could do more than take a step or two, she was barrelled into and struggling to get her arms around Martin’s shoulders as he wrapped himself around her, pulling at her waist and back until they were pressed together, his bags thudding as they hit the floor; she was flooded by a rush of affection that stole her breath, as Martin’s lips pecked over and over across her cheeks, and he held her close, “Oh, god, wow, h-hello.”

“Hmm, hello, Martin.” Deborah murmured, leaning back a fraction so that she could curl her hands around his cheeks and hold him where she could run her eyes over his face; then her resolve broke, and she lurched forwards to bring Martin back into a tight embrace, just a hug with their heads tucked together and arms squeezing tightly, “Oh, come here.”

“I missed you, I love you, I love you so much, god I missed you.” Martin was muttering constantly as his fingers carded through her hair, and he inhaled deeply; Deborah couldn’t blame him, but at this rate they would never get a proper sentence between them before he had to leave again.

“Martin…” Deborah sighed, as she shifted her hands to lie across his shoulders, and pushed ever so slightly, placing a few inches of space between them; then, as Martin was smiling at her, and she could have fallen into the pit that was the affection that he was showing, her eyes fell on the pile of his bags, and Deborah was struck by a pang of suspicion, “Martin?”

“Yeah?” Martin replied sniffling slightly with the bout of emotion that he was choking on, as he leaned back, allowing Deborah the room needed to take a step back and fold her arms together; he looked confused as she narrowed her eyes and peered at the baggage around his feet.

“I thought you said you were only coming back for the weekend.” Deborah remarked slowly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as she tried to figure out what was going on; the way that Martin rocked anxiously on his heels, and dug his hands into his pockets didn’t do anything to dampen the sour itch of bewilderment on the tip of her tongue, “Why does it look like those are all of the bags that you took with you in the first place?”

Martin didn’t answer straight away, and Deborah waited for him to finish biting on his bottom lip and pointedly avoiding her gaze, one eyebrow quirked and held judgementally for him to see; she didn’t know what he was up to, but that expression on his face, it was never good.

“Because…they _are_ all of my bags that I took with me in the first place.” Martin explained sheepishly, meeting her eyes for only a second before he flushed a darker shade of rad and extracted one hand from his pocket to run across the back of his neck; he was hiding something, that much was for sure.

“Why? Martin, what’s going on?” Deborah demanded quietly, swallowing back what might have been a lump of genuine fear for him; there was an inkling, a little nagging voice in her head, but she couldn’t decipher what it was saying as it seemed to hit a wall each time she tried, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Right, okay…” Martin stated nervously, raising both of his hands into the air as if to placate her for a blow yet to come, eyes darting across her face, “Deborah, you’ve got to promise not to shout, or argue, or anything that-”

“ _Martin._ ” Deborah said through gritted teeth, a sure fire way to get him to talk, as she pinched the material at her elbows between her fingers to try and keep herself steady and collected; something wasn’t quite right, and she wasn’t going to let him get away with hiding it from her.

“I quit my job at Swiss Air.” Martin blurted suddenly, clamping his mouth shut once the words met the air, and leaving behind what felt like a frozen void in the air around them; if anything, he seemed to tense and seize up, as if afraid of what would happen now that the truth was a reality.

“You did _what_?” Deborah demanded shrilly, unable to quite believe what she had just heard; her eyes widened in shock, and she didn’t think that she could make a move towards Martin as her brain seemed to be buffering, trying to catch up with a reality that couldn’t possibly be real.

Why…what…why? No, Martin couldn’t be that stupid – there was no way that he would do something so ridiculous, and reckless, and  - who was she kidding, Martin could do anything that he put his mind to.

“I quit.” Martin replied curtly, in his ‘I am the captain’ voice; he even went so far as to lift his chin a notch and square his shoulders, and Deborah could do nothing but gape open mouthed and wait for some sort of explanation that he just didn’t give, “I don’t work there anymore, and now that all my things are here, I don’t live in Switzerland anymore.”

“But you were only there for two weeks!” Deborah exclaimed, curbing the rise of her voice as she remembered where they were, and noticed the path that other members of the public were making around them; she unravelled her arms enough that she could splay her palms and make helpless motions in the air between the two of them, “What – I don’t – why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to-” Martin started to explain, sighing with resignation and letting his head loll to the side, as if the conversation were some great effort and waste of his time; that alone was enough to make the trepidation in Deborah’s guts vanish, and a surge of irritable disbelief alight.

“What the _hell_ was going through your head Martin?” Deborah demanded furiously; she shook her head, switching her train of thought in a split second and raising her hand to point shakily at him, still not moving any closer in case she found herself overcome with “You can’t just – you get back there, and you-”

“I can’t.” Martin cut her off, his voice rising ever so slightly, enough to make Deborah fall silent and drop her hand; his jaw was jutting the way it did when he was being stubborn, and there was no doubt about whether he had made up his mind, “I quit. There is no going back.”

“But-” Deborah tried to argue, one last ditch effort, ignoring how her bottom lip trembled because this wasn’t right; this wasn’t how things were, Martin was supposed to go and get a better life of his own, not trap himself in Fitton of all places.

“No buts.” Martin interrupted sternly; she could have carried on, but instead, Deborah pursed her lips and pulled her arms tightly around her chest, but nodded for Martin to continue, which he did after inhaling deeply, as if about to plunge into an ocean of treachery, “Deborah, I am a grown adult, and what’s done is done. I’m not going back, and you can either accept that and listen to me, or you can throw a tantrum and I can stay in a hotel until you’re ready to listen.”

“I don’t throw tantrums.” Deborah muttered petulantly, because she couldn’t think of a single other thing to say over the bubbling turmoil that swelled in her chest, making her unsure of what she was supposed to do beyond glaring at Martin’s bags as if they were responsible for everything.

“There’s always a first time for everything.” Martin retorted dryly, and there was something in his tone, something almost sad, that made Deborah blink hard, and swallow back her pride to lift her eyes and meet his; the wide smile that had lit up his face was gone, replaced by a faint frown.

He looked sad, and it didn’t take much for Deborah to understand why; she should have been happy, thrilled to see Martin, should have exulted that they were back together. That was obviously what he had been expecting…and why shouldn’t he? Deborah knew that there was a flicker, an infinitesimal ray of light trying to break through her confusion and make her leap up and throw her arms around him, to be glad that the man she loved was home at last.

But Martin wasn’t supposed to be home; life away from her was so much _better_ for him. How Martin could have willingly abandoned that was beyond her, and Deborah couldn’t allow herself to celebrate for even a moment when it felt like Martin had given up the best thing to ever happen to him, and she was the cause.

“Martin…I don’t understand what you think you’re doing.” Deborah said finally, as calmly as she could as she gazed imploringly into his eyes, fighting the twitching temptation to reach out and touch him where he stood, “I thought you liked your job, I thought it was the best thing to happen to you.”

“It _was_ a good job, but I went, and I experienced two weeks of it, I tried it out, and I decided that I didn’t want it anymore.” Martin explained, shrugging lopsidedly and making an odd, reluctant grimace with his mouth; his expression softened as he smiled, and stepped a little closer, “I’d rather be here, with you.”

“Martin, this is ridiculous.” Deborah retorted hastily, hands in the air again, taking a step back as Martin moved towards her, deliberately maintaining the space in case proximity made her weak; Martin may have wanted to just carry on, but there was no way she was letting him brush this under the carpet never to revisit the matter again, she couldn’t live like that again, not with the constant _not talking_ , “That was your dream job, it was everything you’ve ever wanted. You have just given up your dream, how could you-”

“No, Deborah-”  Martin insisted, shaking his head and biting down on his bottom lip, extending his arms helplessly into the air either side of him; the movement seemed to allow him to realise that there were still people around him, and the jittering died down immediately as he visibly cowed, “I mean yes, sort of. But no…”

“So flying at a proper airline with pay and the best planes you could get your hands on isn’t your dream?” Deborah drawled sardonically, quirking an eyebrow at him; she knew Martin, and no matter how much she would like everything to be tickety-boo and for them to go home and live out their lives, that wasn’t the way the world worked, “Stop me if I’m wrong, but that’s not the Martin that I’ve spent the last five years with.”

“No, no it’s not.” Martin agreed calmly, nodding sagely, his eyes filled with something indecipherable that made Deborah stay quiet, no matter how jarring what he was saying might have been, “But you know what Deborah? The Martin that you’ve spent the last five years with is an idiot, and it took this whole, th-this whole farce, for me to see that.”

A renewed determination seemed to fill out Martin’s form, rejuvenating his sagging limbs and the set of his jaw, making his cheeks burn as he gestured furiously, growing irritable with himself.

“I don’t understand.” Deborah sighed, shaking her head and moving unconsciously closer; she couldn’t help the prickle of affectionate denial at the sound of Martin putting himself down, hating it, and unable to shake the feeling that it was partly her fault that he had gone from a man who saw none of his faults, to one that deprecated ones that barely existed.

“I’ve spent the last two weeks sorting out my priorities, because they have been so… _stupid_ , and ridiculous, since – since before we even met!” Martin exclaimed, breaking off and hissing through his teeth as if he couldn’t contain his annoyance with himself; the sound stirred up that impulse in Deborah’s chest to defend him, even though his words were making her brain stutter, actually making it turn, “And I didn’t even realise that until I was leaving!”

“You were taking the biggest opportunity of your life.” Deborah retorted quickly, forcing a faint smile as she lifted her hand to trace the back of her knuckles against Martin’s; not that this had any effect, as he simply shook his head and carried on unimpeded.

“I was choosing a _job_ over _you_!” Martin insisted, his expression strained as if the idea physically pained him, “What kind of idiot lets his girlfriend think that she’s not important as his _job_! And I’ve been like that for _years_ of my life, and I never saw it!”

“Martin, you _love_ being a pilot.” Deborah remarked with a forced encouragement; she wanted to place her hands soothingly on his arms and hold him still, to stop the almost pacing that his rocking suggested, but she couldn’t make herself; everything he was saying made her lungs feel like they might explode with the ferocity of the fluttering within their walls, but that didn’t change facts.

“But it’s just a _job_ , Deborah.” Martin groaned, tipping his head forwards and holding her gaze imploringly, silently begging her to understand, but refusing to move any closer, “There will always be other jobs, even if they’re not as good. There will never be another opportunity to have what I have with you.”

“This _job_ could have given you everything you ever wanted.” Deborah repeated the words that she must have said a thousand times, or perhaps simply to herself, to convince herself that it was true.

“No, it could have given me a career.” Martin stated confidently, and just like that he seemed to still, only his expression faltering as he his jaw trembled and his eyes moved timidly over Deborah’s face, “But it can’t give me a _life_. Flying is great, and I love it, and I’ve devoted everything to it, but you know what?” he paused, and inhaled sharply, making Deborah ache to hear what he was about to say, even though she knew that she would regret it, “I only just realised that for all of that, it can’t give me a _life_ – i-it can’t get me love, o-or marriage, o-or a family, o-or a house, or anything of the things that actually _matter_!” Martin scoffed, and for a moment, a bitter smile flickered across his lips, “I’d rather have all of that and be poor, than fly the best planes and be lonely.”

All of a sudden the tight knot in her guts disappeared, and Deborah felt like she had been swept off of her feet and dropped into a vast ocean; a glittering ocean, but an ocean capable of drowning her nonetheless. _Oh_ …oh…oh _Martin_ …

“Y-you…you want all of those things?” Deborah asked, her voice no more than a breath and she blinked wide eyed up at Martin, who was biting his lip nervously, as if he might have miss-stepped; her arms curled protectively around her chest, and one hand fluttered over her heart, “You never told me anything like that.”

“Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.” Martin replied, a small, imperceptibly smile creeping onto his lips as he scoffed at himself and sniffed back a bout of nervous stammering; his hand rose to rub anxiously at the back of his neck, but Deborah couldn’t just let go like he did.

“No, but Martin…you want that…with me?” Deborah asked again, barely daring to hope; people didn’t want that with her, not her past husbands, not the man she actually had a child with, and _Martin_ had never talked about an actual future, just vague suggestions of long term relations.

But damn, did she want that so much it felt like her heart may have been torn from her chest if she had heard wrong.

“Yeah…n-not _now!”_ Martin told her, with a soft smile on his face and a light in his eyes; then his expression widened the way it did when he thought he had said something awful (as he inevitably did with every other woman he met), and his arms flew up in surrender, “I mean – not now, but, b-but later…I want to marry you, one day…and I want to have kids with you, and live somewhere together, and, a-and just know that you’re there…of course I want that.”

“W-why did you never tell me that?” Deborah asked, once more, unable to quite accept the shining offering that was shimmering just there, within arm’s reach; breaking down and immersing herself in the raging heat that threatened to overflow from her chest felt like an unachievable feat, and she held her breath as she scanned Martin’s face.

“Because I…I don’t know…I…I guess it’s just my, uh, my ‘bloody pride’ getting in the way.” Martin answered, shrugging helplessly; he shoved his hands into his pocket, and  seemed to lean into her space, as she leaned into his, “I just…we would never have split up if I’d let you know that I felt that way, would we?”

“No, probably not.” Deborah remarked, swallowing roughly and releasing a sort of truncated laugh as she pulled her arms against her; the iron ring around her lungs faded, and with the air that she could now breathe came a wash of realisation, that this was actually happening, that Martin was back and not leaving, and that what he had just said might actually be true.

And she had never felt so wrong-footed in her life.

“D-do you want that?” Martin inquired quietly, almost as if he were afraid of the answer as he ducked his head down, and met her eyes with his own, watery blue ones; all that Deborah could see there was complete and utter honesty, and none of the devious or prissy edge that she had learned to expect and love.

“Yeah….” Deborah laughed, nodding hastily and pressing her lips together and fought against the sudden rush of heat, throughout her every pore, that made her head spin and her eyes sting, “Yeah, I do. One day…”

Then Deborah couldn’t hold herself together any longer, and like a dam crumbling under a river of emotion, she felt first her hands, then her chest, then her lips tremble, as she had to inhale sharply with the juddering of her lungs, and her eyes began to water against her will.

“Hey, don’t cry, y-you’ll make me cry.” Martin lurched towards her, and Deborah felt herself get wrapped in his arms as her blurred view of the airport was blocked by the warm, solid wall of his shoulder and chest; she allowed it to happen, the tension fading from her limbs as she fell into the embrace, curling her arms around his back and taking a deep breath to steady herself, never uncollected for too long.

“I’m not crying.” Deborah sniffed curtly, blinking hard to force the tears from her eyes; she stayed tucked against Martin, listening to the bob of his throat for only a moment longer, before she leaned back, and ran her eyes from the tips of his red hair to the trembling set of his lips, “Martin…what about when we fight again, because we _will_ , or MJN goes bust, or we end up with no money, or jobs, or anything, and everything just-”

“I don’t care.” Martin told her, the smile on his face infectious in its nature, glowing as if simply being allowed to hold Deborah meant that everything was better and right in the world, though his hands were still trembling where they skirted her waist, “I’m willing to put up with all of those horrible things, j-just so long as I’ve got you with me. A-and, if we fight, that’s fine, because I-I-I’m not going to let us fall apart again, I-I’ll put all of my stubbornness to good use.”

“God, you need to stop saying things like that to me.” Deborah muttered, shaking her head and wiping the back of her hand across her eyes; she wasn’t sure, but she suspected that her lips were beginning to twitch, and the thought of stepping out of Martin’s embrace didn’t even cross her mind.

Her chest was still heaving, shuddering on the precipice of nervous disbelief and wonderful, incredible acceptance of the fact that Marti was _here_ ; he was there for good, and Deborah was too dizzy from the flaming moths that raged in her chest to settle her mind into that reality.

“Is it stopping you being mad at me.” Martin inquired coyly, biting down on his bottom lip; she should have slapped him for being so ready to believe that he had won her over, but Deborah resisted.

“No, I’m still mad.” Deborah assured him, nodding and narrowing her eyes at him, unable to keep the smirk from her lips; nevertheless, she slipped her arms up and around Martin’s shoulders, and shifted until the two of them were pressed more comfortably together.

“But you forgive me?” Martin clarified, his eyebrows rising to his hairline as he adjusted his hold on her; he actually had the audacity to look surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to accept his ridiculous, stupid decision so quickly.

It was a ridiculous, and stupid decision…but Deborah couldn’t muster the energy needed to care; she had come to the airport with the intention of letting the two of them fall together, and then not parting until late on Sunday morning, too wrapped up in the aching need to have Martin back.

And now, now that the bewilderment and stunned horror had faded, and Martin had poured his heart out…it was that little bit easier to realise that everything really was going to be okay.

“Oh, come here.” Deborah choked, hit once again like a punch to the gut by a surge of terrible, suffocating affection, and without another word of warning, she pulled Martin back into a tight embrace, relishing the stunned little sound that left his mouth and squeezing for all that she could.

oOoOoOo

It still felt like walking through an oddly sharp dream, but with the sky a pale purple outside, and hours of talking past, Deborah found that she could look across her flat, from the kitchen into the sitting room where Martin was sitting back in the corner of her sofa, and feel a pleasant, if unnerving calm settle over her shoulders, like swapping ill-fitting robes for a comfort blanket.

Martin’s eyes followed Deborah as she crossed the room and dropped into the sofa, kicking her legs up as the cushions dipped and resting them beside his, so that their ankles crossed; she opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, which gave him the opportunity to say what had been glinting behind his eyes since they had walked through the door.

“I um, I realise that this might be a bit presumptuous, but uh…” Martin started, then drew his bottom lip through his teeth and looked down at his hands where they tangled together on his lap, “I’m sort of homeless right now.”

“I know exactly who to blame for that.” Deborah remarked wryly, quirking an eyebrow at him; she had decided on the drive back that she wasn’t going to give in completely when it came to reminding him what a mistake he was making, but it would have been wrong of her to say no after the fuss she had made over wanting him to move in in the first place; she still did, “I’m sure you can find your way to the spare room.”

All of his things were there already, there was really no reason that she could come up with to refuse him the roof over his head.

“Thank you…not, uh…” Martin replied gratefully, nodding hastily; then he paused, and blushed in a way that foreshadowed whatever it was that he was thinking, and asked in a tone of voice that came hand in hand with the more devious of his suggestions, “There’s no chance I might be able to, um, t-to sway an upgrade?”

The cheeky bugger, Deborah thought, as Martin’s eyes trailed fleetingly from her face to her toes, then back up again, and he cleared his throat awkwardly; she really did love him.

“If you’re good.” Deborah drawled salaciously, fluttering her eyelashes at him from across the sofa as he shifted suddenly enough to jolt her ankle, somehow leaving their shins resting even more thoroughly against the other.

“Oh, I will be.” Martin assured her seriously, nodding with a wide eyed certainty as one of his hands rose to grip the back of the sofa; as nice as his determination was, Deborah knew that if they really were doing this, she had to sort out the things that would cause ruts between them _before_ the chance for either of them to get hurt occurred.

“No matter how sentimental you’re feeling, I can’t see you wanting to live here without paying rent.” Deborah remarked, in as business-like a tone as she could manage; she straightened her back and placed her hands on her knees, “What are you planning to do for money now that you’re unemployed?”

“Of course, I’ll pay rent.” Martin replied, the smile slipping from his face as he sighed and sat forwards, sensing the tone; for a moment, he simply looked down at his hands, then Martin adopted a jaunty tone, as if everything would work itself out in the end, “Well…the van’s still there, so I can still run Icarus; all I need to do is call the advertising agency and get the clients back.”

“Anything else?” Deborah inquired softly; she could see straight through his forced joviality, and gave in to the pang of sympathy, shuffling forwards on her knees to lay her palm on Martin’s own knee, squeezing soothingly.

“Well…” Martin muttered, swallowing hard and clearing his throat and he placed his own hand over Deborah’s, knee jolting slightly at the contact, “As I understand it, there’s an airline in dire need of an extra pilot, but unable to afford it. Do you think Carolyn would take me back?”

“I’m not sure.” Deborah answered honestly, frowning imperceptibly, but never wavering in her comforting; it was hard enough for _her_ to adjust to everything going back to normal, or, better…working out how the rest of the world fit into the equation was a challenge…but one that she was willing to endure for Martin’s sake, “We’ll just have to argue a good case and hope that she isn’t so stubborn as to refuse you. Even then…I don’t know how long we’d last.”

“How d’you mean?” Martin retorted, the bridge of his nose crinkling in confusion.

“I mean we’ve been letting things slip for almost a year already.” Deborah explained, having already come to terms with the fact that despite her efforts, she couldn’t prolong MJN’s life indefinitely, “Even with the ability to do the longer flights, we’re losing profit, slowly but surely; the company’s going to fold sooner or later.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Martin replied immediately, and with that he lurched forwards, sitting cross-legged with his face barely a foot from hers, an odd little glint in his eyes and the pinch of his eyebrows, as he slipped his hands into hers.

“No, but we’d have to start making a profit.” Deborah agreed patiently, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with hers, enjoying the solidity of having something to hold; anything was possible hypothetically, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already through of every avenue of possibility, but that didn’t mean it was achievable.

“Exactly.” Martin exclaimed, like a breath of a secret scheme, as the corners of his lips curled upwards with a confidence that normally accompanied grandiose declarations and insistences upon his rank.

“I think your stay abroad might have wiped from your mind quite what type of company MJN is.” Deborah remarked wryly, rolling her eyes at his optimism; she should have known that Martin would come home and try to fix everthing.

“No, it hasn’t; but it _has_ given me two weeks to get inspired and think about ways to save it.” Martin insisted, gripping her hands a little more tightly and shifting on the sofa, making the cushions dip this way and that as he gestured eagerly met her eyes.

“You think we could save MJN?” Deborah inquired, trying not to let her disbelief enter her tone; it wasn’t that she didn’t have faith in him, but it felt almost like Martin was the only one of them that couldn’t feel that nagging sense of conclusion looming on the horizon…well, only one save Arthur, but it was best not to include him.

“I think that I spent years running my own business, even though it’s a bit rubbish, and not that impressive.” Martin replied confidently, his grin never faltering, as his shoulders squared and he gripped her hands even tighter, leaning in as if to divulge the secrets of the universe itself; the excitement on his face was even enough to stir up a tremor of anticipation in the depths of Deborah’s despair, “I know how all of this stuff works, sort of, and I believe that if we put in the effort, it could be done.”

“Really…” Deborah remarked, quirking her eyebrows; then she stopped, and really looked at Martin, at how eager he was to the point that he practically vibrated with it, and at where they were despite everything that had happened; just like that a flicker of hope alighted in her chest, and she smirked, and drawled as she leaned in close enough to place a kiss on Martin’s lips, “Go on then. Impress me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I will try to update before the end of the week, from Friday through an entire week, there won't be more chapters as I'm on holiday abroad then, and won't have wifi. 
> 
> However, this is not the end, and I'll be sure to have some good bits prepared for when I'm back home.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

The sun was already up, but the thick curtains stopped its rays from invading Deborah’s room as more than a muted glow, which made it even more difficult for her to blink into awareness, swathed as she was in the pleasant softness of her covers, and the comforting warmth of the other body that had been up until a moment ago, curled loosely around her.

Any lingering distemper that Deborah might have been feeling the night before was gone, and with the new day, she could muster nothing but wonderful, affectionate, passionate pleasure at the new acceptance that Martin was home, and if last night was any indicator, had no plans on going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

As Deborah rolled slightly, enough to rest on her back and stretch out her spine, her hand brushed against Martin’s bare back, which was turned towards her as she caught him in the act of slipping tentatively across the mattress, legs pointing towards his side; she wasn’t worried, not after the evening’s events, but the hot tendrils in her chest that demanded Martin’s presence, the essence of intimacy, were too alluring to resist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Deborah drawled, tracing the back of her hand down Martin’s back as a smile spread across her lips; Martin froze at the sound of her voice, so Deborah took the opportunity to shift lazily onto her elbow so that she could loop one arm around Martin’s waist, and rest her chin on his shoulder.

“Well, I _was_ getting out of bed.” Martin replied quietly, sighing as he turned in her hold, enough that she could see his face and brush the tip of her nose against his; the bridge of his nose was crinkled and Deborah thought that he sounded like a school boy petulant that his tricks hadn’t gone as planned, “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I gathered as much.” Deborah purred, still smiling indulgently at him, letting her tongue dart out to wet her lips as she looked into the blue of his eyes; it really was good to have him back where he belonged, so much so that she didn’t know how she had ever coped without the sweet raging in amongst her ribs, “However, now that I’m awake and I’ve foiled your plan, I’ll ask again. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Um…yes, about that.” Martin answered slyly, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as he turned just a fraction more towards her, enough so that he was no longer at risk of escaping, “Before you woke up and ruined my scheme-”

“Oh, you’re scheming now are you?” Deborah remarked warmly, sliding her hand around Martin’s chest so that she could lead him back towards her, bringing him to lie back so that she could look down at him, still propped up on her elbow, “First keeping secrets now scheming, what am I going to do with you Captain?”

“I – y-you know I’m not technically Captain, right?” Martin inquired, his eyebrows coming together nicely as he nonetheless slipped his arm around Deborah’s waist, resting his hand on the small of her back, stroking small circles with his thumb; oh, how she had once longed for the day that he would stop insisting that he was the captain.

“You’ll always be _my_ Captain.” Deborah assured him, even though she inwardly scolded herself for sounding so soppy as she gently stroked her hand through his tussled ginger hair, doing little other than to make his fringe stick out even more erratically above his brow; if nothing else, it would make him happy, and transmit some of what she was feeling in that moment.

“Oh, um… _well_.” Martin’s voice managed to drop from his shrill stuttering to a far lower octave in barely a second, and a wicked grin crept onto his lips, as he lay his head back on the pillow and allowed Deborah to swoop down and press her lips to his; she had barely given him a peck before he sat up abruptly, his hand remaining as a guide at her back, “No, hold on, my scheme! I was going to sneak out of bed, cook up some breakfast, and then surprise you with it, but obviously I can’t do that now.”

“You didn’t have to do that at all.” Deborah told him softly, taking note of the disappointment in his tone as he grimaced to himself; the flickering embers of affection never faltered as she watched the flush in his cheeks wax and wane, and listened to him fussing.

“I know, but I want to.” Martin explained, shrugging nonchalantly, as if he were trying to hide how much the idea had actually meant to him; that was enough to make Deborah feel just a little guilty for waking, though it was his own fault for being as graceful as a wildebeest, “As a sort of, romantic gesture type thing, to say I love you, and uh…thanks for letting me live here.”

“You do understand that living here means you’re no longer a guest, and therefore don’t need to thank me anymore.” Deborah clarified, as she settled down beside him, laying on her side rather than propped up above him, though she left her hand as it was, tracing circles on his chest; this was something that she was certain she and Martin would bicker over constantly until he became more comfortable, but after the mess that they had made before, she was careful to approach the subject.

“Just one more time.” Martin replied in a hushed tone, lifting one finger into the air and narrowing his eyes; he was a stubborn man, that much was never going to change, no matter how far he tried to alter his habits.

“Oh, I suppose.” Deborah sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes and pointedly ignoring the triumphant little smirk that appeared on Martin’s face; then she shifted a little closer, and ran the tip of her finger from his chest to his chin, and drawled salaciously, “Anyway, I can think of a few things I’d much rather be doing than eating breakfast.”

“I’m sure you can…” Martin agreed, his eyes betraying his tone as they wandered down to tickle over Deborah’s lips, and his hand clenched when it stroked at her back; nevertheless, he didn’t give up, “b-but I thought we’d need to start early so that we can get to Carolyn’s in time.”

“They’re not expecting us ‘til noon.” Deborah replied, voice pitched at barely a whisper as she leaned in and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to first Martin’s cheek, then a little further back, beside his ear, taking a marvellous thrill of victory as she felt him swallow hard and blush more deeply, even as he sat up a little straighter, propping his elbows up either side of him.

“Right…” Martin acknowledged a little breathlessly, letting his hand slip from Deborah’s back to her waist as she followed his movement and shifted her weight onto her knees; he bit down on his bottom lip, and asked sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “I’d still quite like to make breakfast though. It’s just, I’m a bit hungry.”

“You poor thing.” Deborah pouted playfully, shaking her head at him until she could see her hair fluffing around the peripheries of her sights; she was in too good a mood to let him out of her sight, and too good a mood to truly refuse him a single thing he wanted, drawn by the lovely fluttering throughout her veins, “How about this? I allow you to leave the bed, and make breakfast, so long as I get to help-”

“But-” Martin began in interrupt, his eyes widening as they did when he felt that he had an important argument; but Deborah cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“No buts, it’ll be fun.” Deborah promised, a facsimile of seriousness as she leaned over him, and then very deliberately let her eyes trace down his chest, and then a little lower, “And then, when we’ve had our fill of the food that you desire, we come back to bed, and have our fill of what I’m desiring.”

“Um…I’m not sure if we’ll have time.” Martin replied, trying to check a watch that wasn’t there anymore, and wincing as if he were stricken at the possibilities that in his mind couldn’t all exist in harmony.

“Surely your mental timetable has some built-in time?” Deborah inquired patiently, easing off of her overly suggestive posture and leaning back, giving Martin time to think; she knew how he functioned by now, and was willing to sacrifice her idea of a good morning for the sake of keeping him happy, if she really had to.

“Yes, of course it does,” Martin retorted, raising an eyebrow at her as he scoffed through his nose, finding humour in her apparent doubt regarding his efficiency; he had yet to release Deborah from his loose embrace though, regardless of his protests, “In case we’re running late.”

“Well then, let’s run exactly to time, and halve the minutes you’ve put aside for showering by combining our turns…” Deborah instructed suggestively, leaning back down and smirking at the thoughtful expression on Martin’s face as she resisted the temptation to just kiss him and get it over with, “and then we’ll have plenty of time left to spare.”

“I…” Martin thought for only a moment, his brow creasing as his eyebrows knitted together; then he seemed to abandon his musings, and shrugged flippantly, pressing his lips together into a pleasant smile, “that could work.”

“Of course it could.” Deborah drawled, pecking him once on the lips before sitting back, and allowing Martin to hoist himself from the bed; he glanced devilishly at her over his shoulder as he slipped into some old pyjamas that had been buried in the top of his largest bad, and Deborah made no effort to hide the tracks that her eyes followed.

Breakfast turned out to be a harried, messy, ultimately enjoyable experience, as Martin weaved here and there around the kitchen trying to cook as many things as was possible all at once, and Deborah tried to stand in one place and cook one thing, while Martin fussed around her, moving past her with hands on her waist and shoulders, checking her progress and trying to take control.

In the end they simply ate as they cooked, and the litany of fond bickering never wavered, even when Deborah had to gently slap Martin’s hands away from the stove as he attempted to ‘help’ her, and Martin became increasingly distracted by the various unusual cooking utensils that he had found hidden in her cupboards.

“What’s this?”

“It takes the outer layers off of garlic; we don’t need it now.”

“But it’s just a floppy, _thing_ – I couldn’t even get my hand in it.”

“Well, luckily, I’m not planning on skinning your hand any time soon.”

Somehow, despite both of their best efforts, the morning passed (albeit very pleasantly), and before she knew what was happening Deborah was being bundled into the passenger side of Martin’s van, and the metal doors were clanging shut around them as they prepared to drive to Carolyn’s house; their plans weren’t quite nerve-wracking, but there was something

“Okay, o-okay,” Martin was repeating over and over to himself as he curled his hands around the steering wheel and tapped his foot agitatedly; he turned abruptly to Deborah, and demanded, “do you remember everything we talked about last night?”

“Yes, I do, because as you’ve reminded me, it was only last night that we talked about it.” Deborah replied wryly, teasing, but unable to muster up any sense of irritation or annoyance; it wasn’t hard to understand why he was so nervous, given what they wanted to do.

“But you remember how we’re going to sell it, and everything that we need to cover to win Carolyn over?” Martin asked hastily, adopting some of that frantic edge that was trying when under pressure, but rather endearing in the relative safety of his old, rickety, van.

“Yes, Martin, I remember.” Deborah assured him, making sure to smile, but not too widely, in case he think that she was pretending for his sake, “Although, as I said last night, all we have to do is win Arthur over to sway Carolyn’s vote, and that’s hardly a mean feat.”

“I don’t want to take any chances.” Martin sighed, gazing across the small gap imploringly, though he didn’t lessen his grip on the wheel, “I know how important MJN is to you, and it’s important to me as well…I’m absolutely certain that we can do this, with or without Carolyn, but I’d rather we had her on side.”

“Well, she needs to hire you back first.” Deborah remarked before she could stop herself, quirking her eyebrows at him; that was the only real obstacle to their success, Carolyn’s stubbornness. How Deborah had managed to surround herself by such pedantically proud people she didn’t know.

“Yes, there’s also that.” Martin replied dry, swallowing hard enough that his throat bobbed and his chest shuddered imperceptibly; Deborah couldn’t be sure exactly what it was that he was worried about, but she was certain that whatever it was, it would be something that he could smash.

“We’ll be fine.” Deborah promised, and with that she reached across the space between them and placed her hand on Martin’s wrist, squeezing gently, and hoping that he understood that whatever happened, she would be there, be it to congratulate him, or to scrape him from the tarmac.

oOoOoOo

When they arrived at the Shappey residence, Deborah found herself completely ignored as the door flew open before she had a chance to ring the bell, and Arthur appeared on the other side, in his casual wear, eyes wide, smile wide, and arms thrown out just as wide, all of him wide with excitement.

“Martin!” Arthur exclaimed, as he barrelled forwards and pulled Martin into what looked like a crippling hug, making him stumble back before he was dragged back to his feet; Deborah took the opportunity to step past the two of them and into the hall, watching the proceedings with a faint smile on her face.

“Oh! Hello, Arthur…” Martin’s reply was somewhat muffled, as he struggled to pat the other man clumsily on the back; the sight might have been heart warming if it hadn’t filled Deborah with the desire to prod and poke fun at them, in a friendly way of course, “I’m pleased to see you too.”

Deciding that it was best to move on, Deborah wandered through the hall and into the large, cluttered kitchen, where she found Carolyn clattering about near the sink; it was still odd seeing Carolyn doing anything even slightly domestic, but looking around, Deborah supposed that there was little choice, as it looked like Arthur had been the one to make most of the mess.

"Morning Carolyn.” Deborah announced herself, as she leaned back against the doorframe and folded her arms loosely over her chest; now that she thought about it, even with the trepidation that she felt about having to confront Carolyn, she was feeling rather chipper.

“Oh, hello Deborah.” Carolyn replied dismissively, turning towards her and nonetheless throwing down the tea towel that she had been wringing out as she surveyed her, “You look – hmmm.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Deborah inquired, leaning forwards slightly and playfully cupping a hand behind her ear as Carolyn shook her head and pursed her lips, moving across the kitchen to put a pile of plates in a cupboard, “I didn’t quite catch the end of that.”

“I was about to say that you looked to be in a rather good mood, then realised that that was the last thing on Earth I wanted to hear about.” Carolyn replied dryly, rolling her eyes when Deborah simply smirked; when Martin appeared at Deborah’s elbow, stepping past her and moving further into the room so as not to block the entrance, she paused in her chores, and smiled thinly, though she made no move towards him, “Martin – hello.”

“Hello…” Martin greeted her, a bashful smile spreading across his cheeks as he blushed, and swayed slightly on his heels, hand buried deep in his pockets; something about the way that Carolyn looked at him made the bridge of his nose crinkle, and his eyes narrow suspiciously, “what was that face for?”

“Oh, nothing.” Carolyn remarked airily, batting her hand though the air as if it were no matter at all, and plastering on a pleasant smile; she could pretend all she wanted, Deborah knew that she was pleased to see him, deep down, “It’s just there was a part of me expecting you to look more Swiss.”

“No, still English.” Martin assured her brightly, shooting Deborah a sideways glance as if to beg for moral support; it seemed that he, unlike her, hadn’t quite been able to shake the nerves of before.

“And entirely unaltered.” Deborah chimed, stepping to Martin’s side and brushing her hands fleetingly over his arm, tugging just enough that he was led towards the chairs that surrounded the round table in the centre of the kitchen; breathing just a little too fast, and clearing his throat too much, Martin sat, and Deborah quickly lowered herself down beside him.

“I’ll say no more.” Carolyn stated plainly; if she noticed how oddly they were behaving, she said not a word, to Deborah’s relief, and simply took a seat on the opposite side of the table, crossing her arms at the wrist as she faced them, “Well, how’s being a First Officer suiting you? A bit of an adjustment for you I’d assume?”

Deborah hadn’t been expecting a heartfelt, joyous reunion, but something about this awkward, stilted gathering felt perfectly apt when in the frame of MJN; the familiarity of it all made the prickling in her stomach fade away, and prompted her to try and offer Martin the same comfort by slipping her hand over his wrist, squeezing encouragingly, and then staying where she was.

“Um…it’s not being a Captain, that’s for sure.” Martin attempted a sort of jovial chuckle, but in reality it petered off towards the end, and sounded weak, and most definitely forced; luckily, before Carolyn had a chance to pick up on that, Arthur sauntered into the room, and came to a stop beside the sink.

“But you were a brilliant Captain.” Arthur exclaimed, as if this solved everything, leaning back against the counter with his arms outstretched behind him; Deborah was sure that it only served to make Martin more nervous, as his wrist jumped beneath her hand, “I’m sure if you asked, or worked really hard, Swiss Air would bump you back up to Captain; they let Herc be one straight away.”

“I-I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Martin muttered, ducking his head to grimace slightly, biting down on his bottom lip; that was enough to spur Deborah into action, as she couldn’t stand to see him get agitated when everything was _supposed_ to be getting better.

“We wanted to talk to you both actually-” Deborah started, turning back to address Carolyn without a shred of humour or sarcasm; but both Carolyn and Arthur were too carried away, and oblivious to the underlying strain that she and Martin were under.

“There’s plenty of time for that later.” Carolyn remarked flippantly, waving Deborah down without a thought for the unusually serious set of her jaw, or the fraying patience in her eyes, “We’ve got a bit of time before we need to get to the restaurant, so we can have a good old chinwag then.”

“Carolyn-” Deborah tried again, calmly, knowing that they couldn’t in good faith relax until everything was laid bare between them, and Martin wasn’t so riled up with nerves; but once again, she was cut off, as had to inhale sharply and deeply to keep her cool, though her grip on Martin’s wrist may have increased somewhat.

“Ooh, I can get some coffees on now, so that we can sit down before we leave.” Arthur offered, already pushing himself away from the counter to cross the room behind them and reach for the kettle.

“Good idea.” Carolyn told him, ignoring Deborah’s attempt to speak.

“Actually, Carolyn, we really wanted to talk _before-_ ” Deborah enunciated loudly and clearly, trying not to grit her teeth or bite her tongue as her posture stiffened infinitesimally, and pleasant anticipation made way for true shards of annoyance that splintered in her throat.

“There’s no point fussing now,” Carolyn interrupted her yet again, rolling her eyes as if Deborah were the one out of order; it wasn’t her fault, she had no idea what was going on, but that didn’t stop it from being extremely frustrating regardless, “let’s just enjoy a few hours peace.”

“No, stop!” Martin snapped, lifting his hands from where they had been pressed against the table top into the air, and glaring at Carolyn and Arthur; both of them froze, and even the clattering of Arthur’s kettle seemed to fall silent as all eyes fell on Martin, “Both of you stop what you’re doing and listen. Carolyn, Arthur…Deborah and I really, _really_ need to talk to you, and we’d like to do it _now_. It’s important.”

“Are you in trouble?” Arthur asked quickly, abandoning his task to stride around the table and pull out a chair beside his mother, who was watching Martin with one eyebrow arched expectantly; Deborah glanced between them, and then back at Martin, and decided that he really did have a hold on the situation, though what had triggered that she didn’t know.

“No, we’re not in trouble,” Martin reassured him, grimacing apologetically, then sighing and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, as if that might alleviate the tension that was setting his shoulders in place, “but this needs to be done now.”

“Oh, good, that’s a relief.” Arthur replied, his expression brightening once again as he let out a sigh of relief and smiled within seconds; so long as everyone was safe, there wasn’t a force on Earth that could keep Arthur’s mood down, especially when he was already charged with excitement, “So what’s going on?”

“It’s not really the sort of thing that can be left until this evening.” Deborah spoke before Martin could open and close his mouth gormlessly, his nerves apparently faltering as the rush of adrenaline that had come from nowhere began to fade once more, and the blush returned to his cheeks and his hand slid across the table and sought hers.

“Alright then. I’ll ignore the fact that you’re bossing me around in my own home, _only_ because I want to know what’s got your knickers in a twist.” Carolyn remarked wryly, all of her previous pleasantries gone, and in their place, a suspiciously pinched expression, and arms folded fiercely across her chest, making her appear more intimidating than before.

“Thank you.” Martin replied, taking a deep breath and attempting to seem in control; Deborah could see his resolve shatter, and there was no doubt that Carolyn could see it too, as he began to stutter, and rubbed his free hand over the back of his neck, “Okay…um…uh…I-I-I-um…”

“Come on Martin.” Carolyn lightly scolded him, rolling her eyes and huffing at the floundering that she had become so used to over the years; Deborah couldn’t help but feel her hackles rise slightly, in defence of what she had been, only a day before, criticising him for, “At this rate you’ll be on your way back to Switzerland before we hear what you have to say.”

“I-I-I…” Martin’s spluttering became even more agitated, and before he could formulate a coherent sentence, he turned abruptly in his seat and gazed helplessly at Deborah, the plea in his expression like a tangible cry for help, “Deborah…”

“Martin’s not going back to Switzerland, and he’s not working for Swiss Air anymore.” Deborah said quickly, and firmly, squeezing Martin’s hand tightly in hers and turning away from him to meet Carolyn’s shocked gaze, never wavering for a moment; the reflexive need to stop Martin feeling so damn anxious was enough to gird her stomach and quell the trickling edge of caution that she had been feeling before, “He quit.”

“What?” Arthur squawked, his eye widening in surprise, though instead of the joy that Deborah had been expecting, he leant forwards over the table, hands clasping together as his expression pinched in confusion.

“What?” Carolyn demanded in the same second, although, unlike the confusion that had caught Deborah by the throat at the airport the previous day, she seemed to have no trouble accepting what she had just heard; instead, Carolyn’s mass seemed to expand with carefully controlled anger, “Deborah, if you are responsible for this-”

“I’m not.” Deborah replied curtly, refusing to back down; she had already had this argument with Martin once that weekend, and now she wasn’t going to let herself be accused and criticised for what should have been a _good_ , wonderful thing. Martin coming home was the best thing to happen to her, and Carolyn was _not_ going to replace the happiness that she had embraced with guilt.

“If you made him give up the biggest opportunity any of us are going to get-” Carolyn carried on as if Deborah hadn’t spoken, leaning in as if to scold her even further; Deborah couldn’t help the pang of guilt, or it could have been hurt, in her chest at the accusation that she might have done anything to jeopardise Martin’s happiness.

As if Carolyn still thought her capable of such cruelty or selfishness; she tried not to let it should on her face, but Deborah couldn’t have been as successful as she thought, as she felt Martin shift against her arm, and he raised his voice over Carolyn’s.

“Deborah didn’t make me do anything.” Martin insisted decidedly, his jaw setting irritably as he glared at Carolyn across the table, and gripped Deborah’s hand until it was almost painful, “This was entirely my decision, so if you want to have a go at me for throwing away this big opportunity, then do, but don’t take it out on her.”

“So, you don’t work for Swiss Air anymore?” Arthur asked, his perplexed squint just a tad more serious than it usually was, as he ignored his mother’s abashed glare; Deborah supposed that what they were seeing was genuine concern, rather than the overly optimistic dismissal that they were used to.

“No,” Martin replied, an edge of sheepishness creeping into his tone and his fingers began to shift uncomfortably around Deborah’s; when no immediate reply came, he ploughed on, trying to inject some false vigour into his words, “I’m currently unemployed, and I’m going to be living with Deborah, here in Fitton.”

“So you’re home for good?” Arthur asked again, still missing the thrill that Deborah had been expecting from him; that alone made her all the more determined to make this right, whether they accepted the way that things were or not.

“Yes.” Martin replied shortly, biting down on his bottom lip as his eyes fell from Arthur’s, and down onto the table top again.

“That’s why we wanted to talk to you.” Deborah added, taking care to maintain a calm and soft demeanour, despite how unsettled and frankly disappointed she was feeling, gritting her teeth and pointedly ignoring the roiling in her guts for the sake of peace.

“To find out what I thought of the two of you making the stupidest decision in the history of stupid decisions,” Carolyn huffed, glaring between the two of them as if they had committed some crime worthy of treason, as if this were actually an affront to _her_ , rather than the romantic act that it was, “and I say that as the very loving mother of Arthur.”

“Hey!” Arthur exclaimed, but nobody paid him any attention as he sat back in his seat and pouted slightly.

“What were you expecting me to say?” Carolyn demanded, throwing her hands into the air; Deborah glanced fleetingly to meet Martin’s gaze, but he was stubbornly glaring back at Carolyn, his cheeks flushed with determination, “You weren’t honestly expecting me to bring out the banners and celebrate? Martin, I knew you were a fool, but this is far beyond anything I saw coming-”

“We’re not expecting anything from you, Carolyn,” Deborah interjected, deciding that enough was enough, and they weren’t going to sit and listen to her scolding any longer; Carolyn raised her eyebrows at the interruption, but Deborah simply pursed her lips and carried on, “and to be fair, this isn’t really _your_ issue to be getting worked up over.”

“Except I’d sort of like my job back.” Martin chipped in, toeing the line between hopeful and cheeky as he winced under Carolyn’s fiery gaze; he fidgeted uncomfortably, and swallowed hard as he spluttered, “I-if you were willing, I mean.”

“I’m sorry?” Carolyn inquired, her eyes flickering to Deborah as if Martin’s word alone wasn’t confirmation enough of what she had just heard; Deborah had to admit, this was the bit that had made tiny little teeth gnaw at her nerves, as she knew that there was as much chance of failure as there was of success.

“I-if it was alright with you…I’d quite like to come back to work at MJN…” Martin repeated slowly, as if he were talking to a tiger, diverting all of his attention to where his hand was joined with Deborah, picking idly at the back of his knuckle with his other hand, “so long as that’s okay.”

“Really?” Arthur gasped, though he still didn’t sound as convinced, nor as enthused as he should have done; instead, his eyes were still wandering between Deborah and Martin as if there were some vital clue that he was missing, despite their efforts to lay everything bare, “Because, even though MJN is brilliant, you were a bit poor when you worked for us, and I thought that that was something you wanted to stop being…poor, I mean.”

“Yes, really. Money isn’t everything, a-and I miss working with you- all of you.” Martin replied, shrugging nonchalantly and making it sound as if it were no big deal; even so, Deborah feel his confidence waning even as he spoke, “I mean, yeah, I was getting paid at Swiss Air, b-but it wasn’t nearly as much fun, even though they did obey the rules, and I barely saw the same person twice for two weeks.”

“I thought you liked regiment.” Carolyn retorted, smirking triumphantly, as if she were so very clever for thinking up such a strong argument; clearly she hadn’t seen just how much Martin had been adjusting himself in the past few months.

“Oh, believe me, he absolutely still does.” Deborah drawled, unable to let the matter be; she trailed the tip of her finger over the table top, and smiled wanly as she continued fondly, “His bathroom routine is still longer than mine.”

“Yes, thank you, Deborah.” Martin muttered, turning his head to create the facsimile of privacy, before tugging and then realising her hand, and turning to gaze imploringly at Carolyn; he leaned across the table, his arms outstretched as he gesticulated, “Carolyn, please…you need another pilot to be able to do the longer flights, and if you hire me again, for free, then MJN won’t fold in the next few months.”

There it was, the flicker of hope that alighted in Deborah’s chest whenever she thought of it; they could save MJN, they really could, and nothing would have to change about her life, other than to improve. Martin was on board, so there was nothing that they couldn’t manage between them.

“Aw, Mum, please hire Martin again.” Arthur interjected, making Carolyn startle as if she had forgotten that he was there, with all of her deep thinking and picking holes in their pleas; his face was wobbling somewhere on the precipice between hope and joy, and he leaned into the group, hand tapping out a stumbling rhythm on the table, “It hasn’t been the same with just the three of us.”

“Even you have to admit that the flight-deck’s been horribly dull.” Deborah remarked fairly, addressing Carolyn directly, without a shred of mockery, praying that her open expression didn’t seem so out of place as to disconcert her; Arthur was in, and that meant that victory was on the horizon.

“It’s a lovely thought, it really is.” Carolyn sighed, shaking her head and lifting a hand to press against her forehead; that was perfect, resignation winning over agitation, “But I don’t think any of you realise that MJN is a loss making company, and no matter how many long flights we make, we’ve been sinking nearer to bankruptcy since before we even hired Martin in the first place.”

“Ah, but that’s the second part of our talk!” Deborah announced daringly, grinning slightly as she folded her arms in order to prop them on the table; it was easy to become playful now that the thrumming of success once again rippled beneath her skin, “Never fear, _Martin_ has a plan!”

“Brilliant!” Arthur declared, his complete faith in them so strong that he didn’t even need to hear the plan, but simply grinned back at Deborah as if already privy to their schemes.

“Is it brilliant?” Carolyn groaned, her exasperation tangible in the air around them; that was no matter, she could be persuaded, Deborah was sure of it, “I _have_ heard some of Martin’s plans, and as I recall, they’ve never ended well for any of us.”

“I am still here you know.” Martin interjected, his forehead pinching with affronted annoyance; he peered between the three of them, cocking his head like a spaniel that wasn’t receiving enough attention.

“And I have complete faith in you.” Deborah drawled, pouting as she patted Martin’s hand, then turned away from him to talk to Carolyn, leaning in towards her and lowering her voice, hoping that honesty and reason would win her over, “Carolyn, we spent hours yesterday discussing this, and I truly believe that what Martin’s come up with could work. We could have MJN running for years, and not just that…we could start making a profit.”

“I wouldn’t be suggesting that we try _anything_ if I thought that we were going to fail.” Martin remarked indignantly; Deborah didn’t turn to see what face he was making, but she was sure that she had seen it often enough to guess, enough to feel the fluttering of affection that wasn’t helpful in that moment in time.

“Martin, you’re the king of trying in the face of definite failure.” Carolyn shot back, sparing him only a glance before he huffed and slumped back in his seat, rustling as he shoved his arms together, “Why can’t you accept that things are coming to an end?”

“Because we don’t want to.” Deborah answered firmly, making Carolyn pause in whatever it was that she had been going to say; she leant forwards just that little bit more, as if to cut Martin and Arthur from the conversation.

“Carolyn…I understand how hard running this company has been on you, and I _know_ that maintaining GERTI has caused you more suffering than joy, I even understand that…that you might be growing tired of it all, or that you might want to start moving on.” Deborah reasoned, bolstered somewhat when Carolyn didn’t scoff, but merely rolled her eyes; this would have been so much easier without the lads there, but some things couldn’t wait, “Herc’s only a short flight away, and if you drop MJN then you’d have one less set of debts and duties to look after-”

“Are you suggesting that it’s time for me to retire?” Carolyn demanded curtly, folding her hands together over the table and tenting her fingers, looking as intimidating as she ever had; it was only years of experience that told Deborah that she had hit a nerve.

“No- god forbid that ever happen, you’re like a storm trooper, good until you drop.” Deborah assured her, allowing herself a momentary smile; this was one of those horrible moments where she had to admit to herself, even to Carolyn, that she may actually have some lingering respect for the woman, “But…if you wanted to step back, and put your feet up, and get some _peace_ away from the fuss that MJN caused, we wouldn’t blame you, because – and I will never say this again – you’ve done a remarkable job. But, if you wanted to do that…Martin and I would still want to keep MJN going, ourselves.”

“With Arthur if he wanted, as he’s technically your heir.” Martin added brightly; Deborah closed her eyes for a moment, inwardly cursing his inability to see that this was a private moment, yet also finding herself immensely grateful that the conversation had been moved so swiftly onwards.

“We’re both too invested to just let go…” Deborah concluded, pointedly ignoring the churning in her guts and the terrible sinking sensation in her chest that was screaming at her that this whole ordeal was far more personal than she had ever hoped to get, “so if you wanted to let go of the reigns, or you just couldn’t be bothered any more…with your permission, we’d carry on.”

After a moment, in which Carolyn surveyed Deborah and Martin through narrowed eyes, and Deborah sat back until she was level with him, she sighed, and shook her head as if cursing the world and its uncle.

“Arthur?” Carolyn inquired softly, turning her head away from them to address her son; a wash of wonderful, beautiful emotion caught Deborah by surprise, as it became apparent that there was now nothing to stop them.

“I want to keep working with Martin and Deborah.” Arthur replied honestly, with an innocence that could win hearts, and probably had considering his track record; he smiled brightly as his eyes wandered between the pilots, “If they can get MJN going properly again, then that’d be the best thing in the world.”

“Well…I suppose that if you’ve all got your hearts set on this, I can’t just walk away.” Carolyn remarked dourly; she was in, she wasn’t abandoning them after all, “Knowing the three of you, you’d be dead within the week – or worse, you’d have alienated all the grounds crew and set fire to the airfield.”

“Yes, that does sound worse.” Deborah tried to drawl, but if anything, she thought that it came out as more of a warm chuckle, as she struggled not to let a grin crawl across her lips and reveal just how pleased she really was.

“So am I hired again?” Martin asked with refrain, as if afraid that she might actually still say no, just to spite him for leaving in the first place; Deborah scoffed gently, and slipped her hand back into his.

“Why not?” Carolyn exclaimed, rolling her eyes in despair, “It’s not as if you’re going to leave me alone if I say no.”

“And I can tell you all the ideas that we came up with to save MJN?” Martin inquired, wincing through a smile composed entirely of teeth as he accepted Deborah’s hand and raised his arms onto his elbows; Deborah could have sworn that some of his excitement was leeching into her through the point of contact, like a jittery little impulse fired through his skin.

“Not now.” Carolyn replied tartly, taking a deep breath and regaining her status as the proud and indomitable matriarch; any trace of her previous resignation was gone, “I’m not having that kind of discussion without a decent meal in front of me.”

oOoOoOo

Thankfully, by the time that the four of them were seated in the quaint country restaurant that Arthur had selected, and they had placed their orders, Carolyn’s annoyance had faded enough that only a residual glare remained; Deborah sat between Martin and Arthur, sipping her orange juice while Carolyn threw back half a glass of wine and sighed.

“I still don’t understand what you think you can do.” Carolyn remarked drearily, placing her glass down and lacing her hands together; since they had left her house, in separate vehicles to avoid any more arguments, she had been reeling off doubt after doubt despite having agreed to try and resurrect her own airline, “I’ve been running MJN for over a decade, and I’ve never even come close to making a profit.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job, Carolyn, and we’re not criticising your methods.” Deborah assured her patiently; she was aware that her usual brand of sarcasm would only deter their plan, so she was taking care to remain reasonable and as far from herself as possible, “We simply think that by doing things differently, from the point of view of a business plan, the company could flourish.”

“Would you mind explaining to me _how_ you plan to achieve such an insurmountable feat?” Carolyn inquired sardonically; it was clear that she didn’t really believe that they could…she had always been one to humour them though, if Arthur was on board.

“Of course, but I think you’ll find that Martin has a far greater grasp of this sort of thing than I do.” Deborah replied airily, smirking with pride as she curled her hand through the air and gestured to Martin, who batted her hand away, giving it a little squeeze before releasing her, “I’ll let him run you through it.”

“Right, okay, um- yeah.” Martin stuttered, slipping ever so slightly into his ‘professional’ voice, as he sat a little straighter and moved his hands to create a boxy sort of shape in the air, “Right…what Deborah and I were talking about yesterday, and what we decided was a good idea, was this-”

“The point Martin, try and get to it.” Carolyn interrupted him, glaring with a carefully cocked eyebrow; Deborah hadn’t been about to say anything, rather enjoying getting to hear him ramble, as she had missed it, so she simply remained silent, despite the prickle at her shoulders.

“Yes. Okay…Basically, there are a few key areas that we need to improve on in order to start bringing in a profit.” Martin explained, once he had cleared his throat and glanced frantically around to the beat of his cheeks lighting up; he had been so proud of this the previous night, it was good to see him regaining some of that confidence now, “These are: the Target Market, Marketing slash Advertising, and PR, as well as the obvious cost cutting things like, cheap fuel and landing fees, et cetera…”

“You say these things, but I don’t see how any of this is going to help us.” Carolyn sighed again, before Martin had time to elaborate on his cost cutting scheme; this time, the prickle of irritation did manage to breach Deborah’s carefully maintained calm.

“Just listen Carolyn,” Deborah instructed sharply, lifting her hand into the air as a warning; then, slowly, she released the tension from her shoulders, and exhaled slowly, drawling and tearing her eyes away to trace over Martin’s face as he watched her, “it’s actually rather good.”

“Yes, thank you.” Martin replied, preening imperceptibly as a smile threatened to creep onto his face; then he visibly snapped himself out of it, and started making round about definitive hand motions, that jumped and shimmied with his words, “Okay, firstly, we’ve got the Target Market; our customers, and the slice of the population that hire us, is too limited. We’re never going to stay afloat when the only people that hire us are rich and wealthy and likely to look down at what we’re offering.”

“It’s a private jet, Martin, who else is going to hire us.” Carolyn retorted drolly, sitting back in her seat and rolling her shoulders in the way of a woman who already believed that what she was hearing wouldn’t work.

“Anyone! That’s my point.” Martin insisted, compensating by sitting forwards, and leaning his elbows on the table between them; there was something about his eager energy, as he pushed up his sleeves and his lips kept trying to curl upwards at the corners, that made it difficult for Deborah to keep a faint smile from her own face as her eyes followed his every movement, “At the prices we’re charging, we could get working to middle class people booking us for holidays and quick trips because we’re cheaper than any other private jet, we’ve got plenty of seats, and we can promise them a relief from the hassle of busy airport and other guests.”

“We’ve always been able to do that.” Arthur chimed in, mirroring Martin’s pose as he too leant forwards on the table, though he fiddled with a napkin, twisting and folding as he listened, “That’s what’s so great about GERTI.”

“Precisely.” Deborah echoed, for Carolyn’s sake more than anyone else’s; peer pressure, that was what they needed, enough of it to convince Carolyn that everything would be fine so long as they all agreed to it.

“But how are you planning to lure in these antisocial working and middle class families?” Carolyn inquired seriously, dropping her hands to the table, palms facing up in a fit of exasperation, startling a waiter that was passing by.

“That’s my second point; Marketing!” Martin trilled, splaying his fingers wide with the movement; his fidgeting had shifted into the good kind that warned of a cheerful and self-confident Captain, “MJN currently has almost no advertising; it’s a miracle we ever had customers. But if we get the word out, get some proper marketing, then people will know about us, and with the cheapness, and the novelty of getting your own plane for the day, people will flock to us.”

“How do you plan to execute this marketing campaign?” Carolyn asked, narrowing her eyes at him and snatching up her glass to take another swig of wine, waving over the a stray waiter to top her up; she peered around their arm as they brought the bottle across, “Advertisement costs money.”

“Not if we’re clever about it.” Martin replied quickly, shaking his head and momentarily dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as he waved away the waiter’s offer of a top up, and the young man disappeared back into the crowd, “See, between the airports that we can get in touch with, and the travel agents that you already have on tab, and all of the thousands of people all across this country and the rest of the world that Deborah seems to know, it’ll be easy to ask for a few favours and have them put up posters and leaflets and recommendations; if we update the website and make it professional, and pay Google just a little bit to put us at that bit at the top of their search list for cheap flights, then everyone will be able to find us.”

“My point still stands.” Carolyn said, in the most measured tone that Deborah had ever heard her use; that must have meant that she was being won over, “Who are you going to pay to put together these posters and leaflets and to update the website?”

“Deborah can do it.” Martin chirped, the smile on his face never wavering, as he held Carolyn’s gaze; the same could not be said for Deborah.

“Wait, hold on.” Deborah demanded, her eyebrows reaching her hairline as she lurched forwards from where she had been sitting like a monarch in her throne and surveying Martin; they hadn’t covered that _at all_ during their conversation the previous night, “I didn’t agree to that.”

“No, not yet.” Martin agreed, smiling ever brighter, and slipping his hand between them to grasp hers, giving it a playful little shake as if that would help her to process the fact that he expected her to suddenly start drawing up an advertising campaign, “But you will.”

“Oh, will I?” Deborah retorted sarcastically, her voice turning just a little shrill as she pulled her hand from Martin’s hold and folded her arms over her chest, swallowing back the fluttering of doubt that appeared between her ribs; she was all for helping, but she was a _pilot_ , not a miracle worker, no matter what the rest of them may have thought.

“I’m with Deborah on this one.” Carolyn interjected before Martin could say another word, “A good pilot she may be, but I have never once dared to consider letting her handle anything regarding the public, or the business side of the company.”

Exactly! She couldn’t be trusted with paperwork, or the actually _running_ of the company; that wouldn’t end well at all.

“No, n-no, listen!” Martin begged, turning his attention away from Carolyn to reach between them and take both of Deborah’s hands in his; the way that he pursed his lips and went all wide eyed had to be deliberate, “Deborah, your desk in the porta-cabin is _filled_ with nearly hundreds of leaflets and posters that you’ve drawn by hand-”

“Because I was bored!” Deborah exclaimed, gaping at him as she threw her head back and rolled her eyes; the sneaky bastard just _had_ to have kept this bit a secret so that he could ambush her with the others present.

“But they’re _good_.” Martin argued, barely a breath above a whisper, “You’ve got the eye for spacing, and arrangement of text, and every one of them has the company details on them; not only that, but I’ve seen you produce drawings left right and centre, I _know_ that with just a little effort, you’d have no problem knocking up a logo, and proper posters and leaflets with all the information that people would need to want to hire us.”

“I don’t know about that.” Deborah scoffed, looking away from Martin’s eyes and across the table; there was no luck there, as both Arthur and Carolyn had a look about them that said that they were actually considering what Martin was suggesting.

“You _are_ good at that sort of thing though.” Arthur noted thoughtfully, tapping his chin where he was rested up on his hands.

“He has a point.” Carolyn added, her previous doubt fading into something more intrigued, and all the more daunting, as it signed away the last shred of hope that Deborah had in terms of support, “It may be borderline obsessive, but those mock-ups aren’t half bad.”

“Hold on – putting aside the fact that you’ve _all_ rifled through my desk at least once without my permission,” Deborah exclaimed, taking her hands back _again_ , and raising them in a universal sign for surrender, “there’s more to advertising than having an eye for colours and pictures.”

“I have absolute faith in you.” Martin said, with such a degree of certainty that Deborah couldn’t argue with him, caught off guard by a sudden rush of fluttering in her chest, as Martin kept on talking, gazing imploringly into her eyes, “Deborah, it’s all about how you word it, and words are sort of your _thing_ …you could convince anyone to do anything if you put your mind to it.”

“Well, _yes_ …” Deborah replied carefully, cautious not to sound as if she was agreeing, even though her mind started whirring, “I remember when I was studying Language, we did a section on media, and persuasive writing…it was all about highlighting certain phrases, positive ones, like ‘Free’ or ‘Cheaper Than’, and then putting them in a brighter font so that people’s eyes are drawn to it.”

Not that she actually thought about it, there were about a thousand tricks that they could use, all a little bit more entertaining than the last; damn, Martin knew how she ticked, and he’d trapped her now.

“I hope that you’re not thinking of putting the word ‘Free’ anywhere near my company.” Carolyn interjected, quick as always to avoid losing even hypothetical money; her hand stiffened where she had curled her fingers around her wine glass.

“But we could!” Deborah remarked, her eyebrows dipping as she gazed into the middle distance above Martin’s head, caught and carried by the wave of ideas that Martin had incited as she lifted a finger to her lips; he may have been sneaking and secretive, and deserve a good slap, but actually, it wasn’t a bad idea, “Think about it; we could say ‘When you book a family flight, children under twelve fly FREE’. That’s sure to win over parents that have to pay for seats on busy planes, where their spawn could cause all kinds of trouble.”

“But I didn’t think we charged per person, ‘cos it costs the same to fly to places no matter how many people are on board.” Arthur cut in, peering, bewildered between the three of them; Deborah raised her eyebrows, but was too surprised by the fact that Arthur actually paid attention to come back with a clever remark.

“Actually, the heavier the people, them more fuel we have to pay for.” Martin corrected him, shrugging his head side to side as if he were sorry to burst Arthur’s bubble; as the man that loved to be right about anything regarding flying, he fooled no one, but he did incite a flicker of affection in Deborah, so she took a moment to flick her toes up his ankle beneath the table, earning a quick, sheepish glance.

“It is the same, Arthur, it’s a clever trick.” Carolyn explained deviously, rolling her eyes when he continued to stare blankly at her, but reiterating nonetheless, “Say it costs three hundred pounds to fly somewhere; if we have two passengers, we tell them it costs one hundred and fifty pounds each, but if there are three of them, it costs one hundred pounds each. These families wouldn’t be getting their child on for free, but they’d be none the wiser.”

“Exactly…” Deborah agreed, sitting back in her seat and kicking her feet out to cross beneath the table; it was simple really, so terrifyingly easy to alter the way that the company functioned, that it was a wonder that they hadn’t been doing things that way from the beginning.

“So you’re willing to do that?” Carolyn clarified, turning her attention from Arthur back to Deborah; it wasn’t a demand, or even an order, and Deborah knew that she was being given the choice…but there really wasn’t any choice when the alternative loomed at the back of her mind.

“I suppose…there’s no harm in trying.” Deborah sighed, running a hand through her hair; as her eyes met Martin’s, and she found herself victim to the bashful, beautiful smile that lit up his face, she couldn’t help but force a bit of jaunty confidence, “And when I’ve sorted the advertising, it’ll be easy to get people on the phone, and they won’t even bat an eyelid at putting out leaflets or recommending the website.”

“Good.” Carolyn nodded in a business-like manner, and took another sip of wine; then she turned her gaze on Martin, who was still gazing into Deborah’s eyes, making imperceptible little faces at her as the smile on her face grew and settled, “Martin; that PR you were talking about.”

“Oh, um…actually that just ties into the Marketing.” Martin said sheepishly, startling as if from a trance, and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, swivelling in his seat to compensate for just how far he had turned, “Just, um, j-just try being nicer to the passengers. Now, I-I-I _know_ that sounds silly, b-but if you’re nicer to them, they _might come back.”_

“I’m always nice to the passengers.” Arthur chipped in, grinning proudly as he leant on his folded hands; it was good to see him so involved, although, there was very little that he could actually do in terms of fixing MJN.

“ _Yes_ …” Martin acknowledged, nodding slowly and chewing absentmindedly on his bottom lip, “it wasn’t really you that I was talking to.”

“Oh, fine! I’ll be wishy-washy if it’ll get us a profit.” Carolyn groaned, shaking her head at the very thought; but it didn’t matter. They had a plan, a plan that they all agreed on, and that could actually be done!

“Marvellous!” Deborah exclaimed, abandoning all attempts to remain aloof as she beamed and allowed Martin’s fingers to curl around hers again as she was hit by a rush of joy that seemed to come out of nowhere, “Now, I think that that’s enough business for now. We should be celebrating Martin’s triumphant return…a toast?”

“Can I give the toast?” Arthur requested loudly, immediately straightening up and taking his glass of pineapple juice in hand, raising it from the table in anticipation before any of them could answer in the affirmative.

“Just this once.” Deborah told him, smiling indulgently as he beamed gratefully at her; there could be no harm in it, not now that everything was settling back into place, and the world putting itself to rights. It would be a long road, but they’d get there eventually.

While Martin plucked his wine from the table, and Carolyn hadn’t truly put hers down, Deborah took her time in lifting her own glass, giving Arthur the time he needed to mentally prepare himself.

“Okay, ahem-ahem.” Arthur made a show of standing, even as Carolyn waved her hand to try and usher him down, and cleared his throat dramatically; Deborah simply scoffed as Martin chuckled lowly, and shuffled her chair a little closer, under the guise of being able to better see Arthur, when it really allowed her to lay hers and Martin’s joined arms alongside each other, “A toast to Martin coming home, and MJN not dying soon, and still getting to fly on GERTI, and the whole gang being back together like we’re supposed to be even though it’s likely that we might run out of money, or crash, or-”

“Arthur!” Carolyn scolded him, such a familiar sound that it had Deborah tipping her head just so, until she could almost have been leaning on Martin’s shoulder.

“Sorry!” Arthur apologised quickly, and then got himself back on track, lifting his arm where he had dropped it, “A toast to the gang getting back together-”

“We’re not a gang.” Deborah interjected wryly, scowling playfully into Martin’s cheek when his fingers pinched at her waist.

“Fine!” Arthur huffed, his smile faltering for only a second before it was back, and he spoke with a slightly forced fervour, “A toast to all of us friends being back together, not as a gang, and for us hopefully staying together for a long time, maybe even forever.”

“That’s better.” Deborah murmured, and she lifted her glass into the air, nodding for Arthur to carry on as Carolyn rolled her eyes and Martin, the soppy idiot, hummed in agreement with Arthur’s toast.

“Cheers!”

oOoOoOo

It was late enough in the evening that the sky was dark, but not late enough for tiredness to have crept across the land and consumed the weary mortals under its watch; Carolyn and Arthur had departed for their home when the gathering had lost its appeal, with sharp commands that they all be in work bright and early the next day, but Martin had Deborah had taken a detour.

Of course, it was cold, cold enough to bite through their coats, and a little damp from the day of cloudy weather, but there was still a residual, lingering buzz about them, and they just hadn’t been able to resist one last romantic jaunt before it was time to adjust to the real world with the both of them in it.

Which was how Martin’s van had ended up parked as near to the porta-cabin as it was possible to bring it, and Deborah and Martin lay atop the small building, having clambered up the van and onto the roof, and then lain down, huddled together against the chill, half watching the sky, half watching the tiny little planes make their circuits.

As Deborah lay curled up in Martin’s arms, their sides pressed together, his arms around her waist, her arms around his chest, legs wound together, and with her head tucked just beneath his, listening to the subtle, but constantly thrumming beat of his pulse, she couldn’t imagine anywhere that she would rather be; the perfect, spiralling giddiness that settled and swooned from her chest to her fingertips was too enthralling to let go of.

“The last time we did this we could see the stars.” Martin remarked, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he fidgeted and peered up at the sky, which was a murky brown and patchy with cloud cover.

“It’s fine Martin.” Deborah murmured, not bothering to lift her head, and instead watching the tiny little plane that took over the airfield on weekends begin to whir and hum on the runway, it’s tiny passengers bumbling around it.

“I was expecting stars.” Martin muttered in response, sounding truly put out by the weather’s refusal to comply with his desires; even in the most romantic setting, he could find something that wasn’t right, though that was simply one of the many quirks that Deborah rather liked.

“It’s a cloudy night, and I think it’s going to rain.” Deborah remarked, raising herself up just enough to look him in the eye and place a small kiss on his lips, “On the up side, the horrible weather provides the perfect opportunity for a cuddle.”

“Hmmm, that _is_ an upside.” Martin hummed, the irritation on his face fading as his cheeks lit up, and he used the hand on Deborah’s back to pull her down for another kiss; this time it lasted, and Deborah let herself sink into the sensations of his lips, his cheeks against hers, before pulling back, tingling with contentment.

Once she had laid her head back where it belonged, tucked beside his, Deborah and Martin snuggled closer for a while, happy to watch the other residents of the airfield potter about and prepare the little planes for flight. Then Martin sat up a little, tilting his head down so that he could peer across to the runway.

“Did Old Man get a girlfriend in the two weeks that I was gone?” Martin inquired bemusedly, as he continued to stare out at the tiny plane and its passengers, of which Deborah noted with from a fleeting glance, there was one extra.

“I think so,” Deborah replied, not bothering to watch with him; if anything interesting happened, Martin would tell her, “though this is the first time I’ve seen her actually get in his plane.”

“Oh dear.” Martin chuckled, lowering his voice to a furtive whisper, as if they might be overheard; the sensation of his breath whistling past her ear made Deborah fidget, and giggle slightly, against her will, “I don’t think Old Man’s going to have a girlfriend for much longer.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Deborah remarked wryly, still fighting a giggle as Martin shifted enough to meet her eyes, and quirk his eyebrows demonstratively, trying to lure her into sharing his hilarity, “You’ve almost crashed our plane lots of times and I still love you.”

“Not lots of times-” Martin began to insist, shrugging with the statement, but Deborah thwacked him lightly on the chest, catching her hand in the folds of his coat as she did.

“That wasn’t the important bit, Martin.” Deborah scolded him lightly, abandoning her attempt to extract her hand, and instead using the opportunity to snuggle that little bit closer, relishing the extra warmth that he provided.

“Sorry.” Martin apologised softly, and he lay back down, tipping his head and pressing his cheek against her hair; she might have been wrong, but she swore that he inhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe in as much of her as he could, “I love you too Deborah.”

They stayed like that for a while, idly watching the planes turn and circles and whizz about around them, although, Deborah thought that she didn’t pay quite as much attention as Martin did, as she was far too preoccupied with closing her eyes and relaxing into his warmth. Then, from nowhere, she was startled awake by tiny pinpricks against her cheeks, which morphed into icy, wet, persistent little drops.

“Oh, fantastic.” Martin cursed, as he sat up straight, bring Deborah with him however sluggishly, and began shoving his arm across his face as he grimaced at the rain that began to pelt them, growing faster and heavier with each second, “That’s great that is.”

“Just put your hood up.” Deborah chucked, wiping the water from her eyes, but realising that trying to do anything constructive with her hair, that was already hanging in wet clumps around her face and shoulders, was a lost cause; swiftly, she reached around Martin’s neck and pulled his hood up for him, reacting at twice the speed that he was, “There…”

“Thank you, dear.” Martin drawled sarcastically, smirking despairingly from beneath his hood, already looking like a drowned kitten, with his ginger ruffles more of a woody brown that made the freckles on his cheeks shine out.

“My pleasure, darling.” Deborah drawled, and grinning, she leaned in for a kiss, blinking away the speckles that caught between them as she felt Martin chuckling and his chest shaking where her hands laced into his coat, and he slipped his arm around her waist; they only broke apart when rumble like the heavens being torn open, though far, far in the distance, made Deborah jerk backwards.

“Was that thunder?” Deborah demanded, staring wide eyed around them, turning her head this way and that, and something in her chest clenched; rain was one thing, but a full on storm was an entirely different one, “I think that was thunder.”

“There’s no need to be scared.” Martin assured her, the smirk in his tone evident from where she sat; Deborah calmed enough to raise an eyebrow at him, but he didn’t seem to get the message, “I’m here to protect you, remember.”

“I’m _not_ scared.” Deborah replied curtly, crossing her arms over her chest and rising to her knees, ready to move if needs be, “I’m just very aware of the fact that we’re on a metal roof.”

“Oh, god, yes, um.” Martin’s expression grew panicky all of a sudden, and Deborah slid along the roof towards where they had parked the van, a handy step down, before he could say any more; she must have convinced him, as all the way down he could be heard clunking and yelling at her, “Careful – don’t slip!”

It wasn’t until the both of them were tucked up on the wide front seat of the van, doors securely locked, soggy coats abandoned, and the heating turned up as high as it went, that silence truly fell, if it could be called that when the rain was pelting out a miniature samba on the shell.

“I don’t really want to drive in the storm.” Martin remarked into the quiet, as the two of them stared through the windscreen at the miniscule flashes of light that were beginning to appear on the horizon; Deborah was well aware that nothing could happen, and secure enough, but that didn’t stop her from sitting, legs propped up and curled beneath her, and pressed against Martin’s side as he curled reflexively around her, one arm around her waist, keeping them together in a way that seemed just that little bit more intimate than the cuddle on the roof.

“Then we’ll stay here until it stops.” Deborah replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if too many sudden noises or movements might startle the storm into finding them; she wasn’t scared, because that would have been ridiculous.

“Okay.” Martin agreed softly; he shifted slightly, so that he could curl around her just that tiny amount more, bringing Deborah to rest against him properly, so that his other arm could add a pinch more support where he held her, “You sure you’re okay with that?”

“Absolutely.” Deborah answered lightly, then lapsed into silence once more; huddled together in the van, trying desperately to ignore what was going on outside, Deborah couldn’t help but feel pulled by the lurching sensations in her chest, entranced by the alluring stability of Martin’s tangible form against her, breathing in and out, rising and falling, just there, and the words fell from her tongue before they had truly made it through her mind, “I’m really glad you came home.”

“Yeah?” Martin sighed, the hope in his voice carrying it as if on feathery wings, just a breath against her cheek, while his fingers danced at her waist, and at her elbow, “You’re not still mad at me for throwing everything away?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Deborah answered truthfully, softly; somehow, it felt like the hushed tones, echoed on the metal walls around them, made the words all the more real, “Do you really think you’ll be happier doing all of those things with me?”

“What things?” Martin inquired, tilting his head back just enough that his eyes could follow the lines on her face, and she could see the crinkling of his nose, and the knitting of his eyebrows that sang of his bewilderment,

“You know…” Deborah replied, shrugging infinitesimally, the movement making the both of them rock slightly; it was dangerous territory, like walking on ice that had been hovering over a geyser, but she couldn’t help herself, “getting married, and all.”

“Yeah.” Martin said after a moment, his throat bobbing anxiously as he did; Deborah’s heart may have skipped, not a beat, but a literal hop, and she had to blink fast until his next words caught in her ears and made her pause, “I think…”

“What?” Deborah asked, her fingers flexing and curling around the folds of his shirt, picking at the loose threads as she barely dared to lift her head and meet his eyes.

“I think that, w-well…obviously, we’re not there yet, a-and we’re not ready.” Martin stuttered, but a soft, gentle stuttering, lacking the frantic edge that much of his conversation held; she could feel him swallow again, but his arm tightened around her waist, so she hardly noticed the crack of thunder outside, “But, when it starts to feel like we are, I’m not going to leap into it.”

“What do you mean?” Deborah asked again, this time letting curiosity left her head, shift her back just so slightly so that she could look into Martin’s eyes, her gaze wandering from his lips which were wet and chapped from constant gnawing.

“Well, I’ve seen what happens when I outright ask you for things, or, actually, when you ask me for things.” Martin remarked dryly, smirking slightly, as if at some private joke, “We both have a habit of just saying no- I think mostly it wasn’t even for good reasons, we’re just _really_ stubborn.”

“Speak for yourself.” Deborah scoffed, and that was enough to have the both of them carried away by a fleeting bout of laughter, quiet and soft; when they had settled against each other again, it was more forward facing, so that they could have seen through the windscreen had they not been looking at each other.

“Okay, fine, I earned that.” Martin acknowledged, nodding and rolling his eyes, before shrugging again, as if he hadn’t quite decided what the best course of action was, “But…if I, I mean, when I want to marry you, and I’m sure that that’s the right thing to do, I-I’m not going to leap out and surprise you, o-or ambush you in a public place when you can’t say no.”

“What _are_ you going to do?” Deborah inquired, unable to keep the faint smile from her lips as she lifted a hand to brush lightly over Martin’s cheek; he _did_ pay attention, enough at least to know how she felt about her last marriages, enough to actively avoid making the same sorts of mistakes.

“I don’t know, something romantic, probably.” Martin replied, shrugging nonchalantly and plastering on a debonair smile, so confident already that this was all going to go to plan, “My point is…you’ve done the marriage thing, and I’m thinking that it’s getting a bit worn out, getting asked and saying yes, and doing all the stuff… _so_ , I think I’m just going to ask, not if you want to marry me, but if you’re okay with me asking.”

“You’re going to ask if you can ask to marry me?” Deborah repeated, just for clarification, as she leaned back just a fraction and quirked an eyebrow at him; that was so typically, wonderfully Martin, that she didn’t think that the idea would ever leave her mind.

“Yes. Because, that way, I know that you’re not saying yes just because I’ve asked.” Martin explained, in that self-assured way that only he could pull off, “If it’s okay to ask you, then you’re ready, but if you’re not ready, you can say no, and I won’t ask, no harm done. What do you think?”

“I think you’re hopeless.” Deborah replied fondly, propping herself over him with one elbow against the roughly padded seat of the van.

“Oh.” Martin’s face fell, and he looked momentarily disappointed with himself, turning his head away; now, that wouldn’t do at all, Deborah thought, and without a word, she ducked her head down to press a kiss to his lips, lingering as his hands clenched at her back, tangling in her jumper, before pulling back a few mere inches.

“I rather like you that way.” Deborah drawled, barely louder than a whisper, as she traced the tip of her finger over Martin’s cheekbone, and then his lips, cherishing the moment of realisation as it entered his eyes.

“Oh…” Martin breathed, his eyes widening as they stared into hers, and his cheeks flushing an even darker shade of scarlet than they already were, while he managed if possible, to pull her even closer.

“Yes, oh.” Deborah echoed affectionately, pecking him lightly once again; then, as Martin’s eyes flickered over her face, and she was filled with the warm, pleasant, exhilarating certainty that everything was going to be just fine, she allowed herself to be pulled just that fraction closer, enough that Martin tipped backwards into the remaining patch of seat behind him, and she could fall atop him, caught in his arms with her legs either side of him, “Now protect me from the storm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now I'm officially on holiday, so if I don't reply to asks, or update for a week, it's because there's no wifi


	50. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fret, just enjoy the fic, and see my note at the bottom

**Chapter 50 - Epilogue**

After six months of rushing about, of running a thousand and one things through her head to keep things in check and keep up with the increased workload from MJN, and the albeit pleasant hassle of helping Martin truly move in and settle into her – _their_ flat, these few days off were like an oasis nestled in between the roaring sands of a desert storm.

It had been six months exactly since the four of them had sat down and discussed how to save MJN, and Deborah felt confident in saying that the company was well and truly saved…more or less. So a lull in bookings had left Carolyn to declare that they could have the week to themselves, which was perfect, sublime even, as it gave Deborah the opportunity to really enjoy the comfortable swing that her life had settled into.

Of course, Martin took the week off as an opportunity to work a van job or two, but Deborah couldn’t deny him that; he was at home most of the time, so a few hours here and there weren’t an issue.

As if that hadn’t been enough to buoy Deborah’s spirits like feather light clouds fluffing and rippling with each passing mood, as if the dreary doubt that usually hung about her like a cloak had vanished, Arthur had decided to plan a celebratory dinner in the middle of the week; it couldn’t be called a surprise, as it had ingeniously coincided with Carolyn’s thrilled remark a week before that they had broken even.

Now that was a miracle.

MJN had actually completed a flight, and made it back to Fitton, _not in debt_ – never in the years that Deborah had worked for Carolyn, had they ever made a profit, but simply managed to scrape enough to pay the bills.

It was impossible to deny the utter joy that had radiated through the porta-cabin that day, as if the pride of having their hard work pay off was akin to having their own sun, their own nuclear reactor filling the crew with energy.

So a celebration was in order, and no one had tried to dissuade Arthur; in fact, it was such a momentous occasion that Herc was taking a few days off from his busy life at Swiss Air, and Verity had an excuse to stay for the week. Deborah couldn’t help but feel as if her good mood could never be punctured, carried as she was by the utter joy that the thought of having her partner and her daughter all living under one roof for a while brought…like a proper little family.

Deborah, Martin, and Verity; she had never loved them more.

Today though, Deborah kept herself in check, and went about her morning with a smile on her face, behaving herself and pottering restlessly about, while Martin departed for a van job in Nottingham; then at noon, Verity arrived with her father, and after a quick hug and a nosy around to see where Martin was, disappeared into the kitchen, only just out of sight.

Talking to Chris was always…a strain. They got along well enough, (when Deborah thought about it, better than she had ever got along with Harry) and there had once been a spark, albeit one soaked in fine wines and whiskey, but there was something about sharing a child, yet not quite sharing, that was difficult to move on from. Today however, he seemed to be in a generous mood, and though they didn’t move further than the open doorway, him on the outside, Deborah inside, he spoke hastily yet steadily about some important decisions that he had been making in light of recent months.

“So although I’ve sat down and spoken to the social worker, and she seemed very positive about the whole thing, I’d rather we worked something about ourselves, without having to involve the authorities.” Chris explained calmly, his arms boxed in the universal show of reason as his palms moved steadily through the air.

“I agree.” Deborah remarked shortly, unwilling to speak as freely as she might normally for fear of shattering the odd peace that had settled between them; she leant sideways against the doorframe, arms folded over her chest, drawing some small comfort from the solidity supporting her, “The last thing I want is to drag our daughter through all sorts of legal proceedings when we both want what’s best for her.”

“Exactly. I know that we haven’t always been on the best of terms, but I never kept her away from you to be cruel; it was all to keep Verity safe.” Chris explained, his steady voice doing nothing to mask the guilt that shimmered over his every movement and behind the dull light in his eyes, “Now that you’ve got a stable home environment and career, and your relationship allows for two responsible adults, there’s no reason why we can’t split her time a little more.”

“Yes, thank you.” Deborah nodded in acknowledgement, swallowing back her retort; this was the most important ground that they had broken over the subject in years, and she wasn’t going to let herself mess it up, but instead, cling to the flicker of hope in her chest, as the past few months had taught her that that wasn’t always a pointless thing to do, “Everything’s good, and Verity likes being here.”

“She’s definitely warmed to Martin.” Chris remarked dryly, his eyebrows dipping as if that were a point of much significance; Verity had always loved Martin, which was a _good_ thing in Deborah’s opinion.

“Which you approve of?” Deborah inquired, forcing a pleasant and nonchalant tone, and trying not to let herself feel the prickling of nerves in her stomach at the potential implications of Chris’s statement.

“Yeah, he’s alright.” Chris replied flippantly, batting his hand through the air; just like that, an iron ring disappeared from around Deborah’s lungs, and she could breathe again, “That last bloke you had wasn’t good for you, and Verity could tell; Martin on the other hand…he’s…um…well he’s…”

“He’s what?” Deborah retorted, quirking an eyebrow at him; she had heard that same sentence end in hundreds of ways, not all of them positive…not many of them positive, and she was ready to defend Martin if she had to. Someone had to, at least in public.

“He’s a good bloke.” Chris concluded, grimacing sheepishly at his own impoliteness as he shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed, “I still haven’t quite figured him out, but he seems…decent. And like I said, Verity likes him, and he seems very fond of her, you both seem happy, so…there’s no reason that you couldn’t provide as stable a family structure as Lizzie and I do.”

“I’ll pretend not to hear what you’re implying.” Deborah remarked, rolling her eyes; she was about to say more, but just then the clunking rumble of Martin’s van punctuated the air, and it’s slightly mottled exterior rattled into view, trundling down the road towards them, “Oh, hold on – there he is.”

Chris turned on his heel at the sound, and leaned back against the door frame to watch the van trundle to a stop just beside the driveway, peering down his nose with a curious expression on his face; thankfully, he was too much of a private man to inquire, so Deborah simply shifted from where she had been leaning, and smiled past him as Martin appeared, frazzled and clumsy, from the van’s interior, and hurried towards the flat.

He was later than he had said that he would be, but Deborah was well aware that his jobs almost never ran to time, and so wasn’t nearly as annoyed by that fact as Martin always seemed to think that she was.

“Hello, h-hi!” Martin gasped, as if out of breath, as he strode straight past Chris with only a nod and pulled Deborah into a one-armed hug that she returned fleetingly, but allowed him to step back in the doorway, his arm still slung over her shoulder; chances were, he had been working himself up for the last hour of his drive, “Sorry, I was meant to be back earlier, b-but my van job ran over, and I got stuck on the motor way-”

“It’s fine darling,” Deborah assured him, patting his upper arm lightly and pressing a small kiss to his cheek, before trying to pull him closer to her side, and as a result further into the house; this was most definitely _not_ so that she could feel some sort of united front against Chris, who was _not_ a threat of any kind to her happiness, “come out of the doorway.”

“Oh, sorry- hello.” Martin stuttered suddenly, as he realised that he had so rudely barged past the other man; his cheeks flushed scarlet, and he held out his hand for Chris to shake, clearing his throat awkwardly as the proceedings ended, “Sorry, Chris, hello; how are you?”

“I’m alright thanks.” Chris replied brightly, awkwardly, Deborah thought, as he rocked back on his heels; as the arm around her shoulder tightened imperceptibly, Deborah couldn’t help but wish that Martin could employ some of his swaggering confidence where this part of her life was concerned, “Just had some important things to talk over with Debbie, but I reckon that’s all covered now.”

“Th-that’s good,” Martin remarked, plastering on a cheerful smile that didn’t quite cover his nerves; despite this, he had been making an effort to try and extend the hand of friendship, for his sake or hers Deborah didn’t know, “are you um…are you leaving straight away or are you staying for a coffee and a bite to eat – o-or a drink?”

“I think he wanted to get home before night fell.” Deborah cut in, before Chris had to act on the strained light that entered his eyes; truth be told, she didn’t particularly like the idea of spending more time than necessary with the man, even though she appreciated Martin’s efforts.

“Yeah, I was only dropping Verity off.” Chris corroborated, nodding slowly and pressing his lips together; then he seemed to seize, as if afraid that he might have insulted Martin, as ridiculous a thought as that was, and continued, “But I’m coming back at the end of the week for her, and Debbie and I were planning to have a proper chat and sort some things out – you could join us if you’d like.”

“I-I wouldn’t want to impose if it’s something important.” Martin replied quickly, shaking his head and dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, though Deborah could see that he was itching to know what was going on, as his jittering seemed to still somewhat.

“Nonsense Martin, you wouldn’t be imposing.” Deborah interjected, with a jauntiness that wasn’t entirely forced, as she slipped her arm around Martin’s waist and brought them closer together, until she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze; important decisions had to be made, and she wanted him by her side when they were.

“Are you sure?” Martin asked, peering between the two of them, his eyebrows knitted in the centre of his forehead; there was something wonderfully hopeful about the lilt in his voice.

“It’s about Verity.” Chris told him, unaffected by Martin’s flustering and stuttering; if she wasn’t mistaken, Deborah thought that he was employing the same techniques that he used on the children in his junior classes, “You seem like you’re going to be a permanent fixture here, so it’s probably a good idea that you know what’s going on.”

“B-but that’s family stuff.” Martin insisted; he just couldn’t relinquish the need to obstruct his own way, choosing propriety over what he actually wanted to be doing, “I don’t really get a say.”

“If her step-mother gets a say in how my daughter’s raised, so do you.” Deborah muttered in his ear, keeping one eye on Chris’s reaction as she leaned up on her toes and slipped closer to Martin, making no effort to keep her voice down; she was only going to be so welcoming, and not much more.

“Oh, alright.” Martin agreed after a moment of tittering, as he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and continued to smile awkwardly, appearing more like a caricature than an airline pilot, “In that case, I-I’ll be there – or here, actually.”

“Good.” Chris acknowledged, nodding with the expression of a sailor seeing the first speck of land in months, an over-reaction if there had ever been one, as he slid his hand through his dark hair, then over his stubbly chin, “I better be off now.” He continued, the epitome of smooth yet uncomfortable professionalism; then he peered past Deborah’s shoulder, and called into the flat, “Verity, come and say goodbye before I go!”

A small clunk was followed by the reluctant puttering of bare feet on the kitchen floor, and a moment later, Deborah turned to see Verity wandering past through the sitting room, idly flicking the fluttering skirt of her dress; turning ten had done nothing to curb her independent streak, but it had added about five inches to the girl, and instilled a little more impatience with the world, and a little less frantic excitement.

Verity may have been able to form coherent sentences and maintain a string of proper conversation now (her chatterbox tendencies hadn’t died down, as she was ever so interested in the adult world), but she was also far more absorbed in her own little world now that she could just about make her own decisions.

Dismissive farewells due to a lack of understanding over what absence actually was had made way to dismissive farewells due to an understanding that they’d see each other later, so if Chris had been expecting his daughter to hurry to bid him farewell, he was sorely mistaken, as instead, Verity’s eyes fell upon Martin, and her face lit up as her sluggish flounce turned into a giddy skip.

“Martin!” Verity exclaimed as she hurled herself into Martin’s arms, hard enough to make him stumble from Deborah’s embrace and over the threshold of the flat, although he made a valiant effort at staying upright.

“Oomph!” it sounded as if the air left Martin’s chest as the little girl barrelled into him, but he nevertheless wrapped his arms around her and gave her a quick squeeze, before holding her grinning self at arm’s length; Martin glanced apologetically at Chris, who simply smiled thinly,  “Hello, I-uh, I think your dad wanted you actually.”

“Bye Daddy,” Verity sighed, turning to face her father, and stepping away from Martin to stand in front of Deborah, whose hands dropped down to rest on her shoulders, “I’ll see you at the end of the week.”

“Even so, give me a hug you pest.” Chris instructed fondly, crouching down to receive her; Deborah, taking pity on him, gave Verity a little nudge towards him.

“Fine.” Verity groaned, but she fell forwards into Chris’s arms and gave him a cuddle without complaint; she wriggled a bit and tried to escape, but he held her still for a moment longer than she wanted, until she gave in, “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Chris replied, and with that, he let her stumble backwards and rose to his feet, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

“Okay.” Verity nodded sagely, but otherwise ignored the declaration; instead, she turned her back on the doorway and extended her hand to Martin, who had been standing back watching against the doorframe, “Martin, can you come with me? I have some important things to talk to you about, in the kitchen.”

“Alright.” Martin conceded, when glancing between Deborah and Chris offered no alternative; he let Verity take his hand and begin leading him away, and only stopped at Deborah’s side to press a brief kiss to her cheek, his free hand tracing the line of her elbow.

“See you in a minute.” Deborah called after him, as the two of them disappeared into the kitchen area; then she turned back to Chris, who had been waiting patiently, and found that there was little else to say that hadn’t been said before, and could do without repeating, “Well, goodbye then; drive safe.”

“Will do.” Chris assured her, and his lips curled up uncomfortably, and he extracted one hand from his pocket to wave awkwardly; then he turned on his heel, and Deborah could only watch his back grow smaller until it was hidden within his car, unable to feel much more than a relief like a breath of fresh air at his absence.

 

This was as good as they were ever going to get, Deborah mused, with an irrefutable certainty; in truth, there wasn’t even a part of her that wanted to try and repair things between them. All she needed to be happy was currently in the kitchen, conversing in hushed tones that only just carried through to the hall, growing only a fraction louder at the sound of the front door clacking shut.

As Deborah strolled through to the kitchen, it was to find Martin and Verity on opposite sides of the table, Martin nodding along as the girl muttered something incomprehensible, hand against her lips as if to hide the subject matter.

“What secrets are you filling Martin’s head with?” Deborah inquired dramatically, as she came to a stop, leaning back against one of the counters so that she could look down on the two of them, and folding her arms neatly at her front.

“Only what I listened to you and Daddy saying.” Verity replied instantly, barely flinching as Martin lurch back imperceptibly, straightening his back as if standing to attention, “It’s about me, so I’m allowed to know, even if you tried to stop me.”

“I thought I heard someone eavesdropping.” Deborah remarked, rolling her eyes in despair and shaking her head; she knew that she should have been annoyed, but she couldn’t help but be rather proud of her daughter’s affinity for bending the rules, and how quick she was becoming at devising excuses.

“Oh, am I not allowed to know this?” Martin asked suddenly, as if he might be overstepping some sort of line; once upon a time, Deborah might have scolded him for being so slow to acclimatise, but now that he had mostly settled into the rhythm of life with her, it was easier to let him go at his own pace.

“No, it’s alright.” Deborah assured him, quirking an eyebrow at him until the tension left his shoulders, and he was watching her from over the back of his seat, “Chris and I were just discussing sharing out Verity’s time more evenly; of course during term time she can only stay here on very rare weekends, because of school-”

“Because I learn better when I’m not tired from driving.” Verity chipped in seriously; she must have been giving the matter a lot of thought, “But every now and then it’s okay for me to be a bit sleepy in class.”

“Is that so?” Martin remarked indulgently, smiling across the table at Verity, who grinned and nodded in return.

“Hmmm.” Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, and let her eyes wander between the two of them, relishing the pleasant buzz of affection that simmered in her chest, “So, she can’t stay with us often when she’s at school, but during half terms and holidays, her father has decided that it would be acceptable for us to split the time fifty fifty, be it during one break, or by allocating him Easter, and me Christmas, or vice versa.”

“Doing it _alternatively_.” Verity agreed, leaning across the table to tap the side of Martin’s hand with her own, and pointedly hold his gaze, “I can spell that as well, because I’m top of my class in spelling even the longest words.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.” Martin replied, sounding genuinely amazed by her abilities; it was things like that, like Martin’s ability to put up with her daughter’s showing off whenever he was around, that compounded just how deeply Deborah felt for him. She had made the right decision in taking him back.

The way that Martin was looking at her now, Deborah knew that he wanted to say something, but wouldn’t with Verity there; that was no issue, the girl was easily distracted.

“Verity dear, how about you go and get a book so that you can prove just how good you are at long words.” Deborah suggested, nodding towards the front room, and the hall to which it led; there was no way that she would turn down a chance to show off in front of Martin.

“I’ll get a really difficult one.” Verity replied before a second had elapsed, her eyes widening as her brow crinkled in thought; then she hopped from her chair, and hurried across the room, calling over her shoulder, “Wait a moment…”

Martin waited long enough for the door to the hall to swing open before his eyes fell on Deborah, and he turned until he was sideways in his chair.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked, his voice lowered with concern as the bridge of his nose pinched and he ran his eyes over Deborah’s face; she looked away from where she had watched her daughter skip away, and met Martin’s gaze, smiling perhaps a little too brightly.

“Yes, of course I will be; it’s a good thing that we’re doing this.” Deborah answered truthfully; it just so happened that the truth and one’s emotions never quite tallied up, but that was a matter for another day, and a battle never to be fought, “But, I’ll admit, it’ll be far easier for me with you there.”

“Don’t worry I will be.” Martin promised, confidently enough that Deborah could only grin back down at him; then he blushed lightly, and ducked his head as he cleared his throat and said, “I-um, thank you…for including me in this; it’s – I’m flattered that you’ve um-”

“Martin, put it out of your mind.” Deborah instructed warmly, batting her hand through the air and imitating the wafting away of a pesky insect; then she stepped towards him, and as Martin leaned back in response, lowered herself down to rest across his lap, back against the back of the table as his arms shifted over her legs to keep her in place, “Until the end of the week, all I want to think about is spending time with my daughter, and my wonderful partner.”

“You really are in a good mood.” Martin murmured sardonically, his eyebrows rising to his hairline as Deborah’s fingers traced through the ginger ruffles that hung over his brow; his arms moved again, his hand sliding around for his palm to press lightly at her back.

“That I am.” Deborah replied softly, ducking her head down; she didn’t quite kiss him, but brushed the tip of her nose against Martin’s, beaming affectionately as he returned the gesture.

Then the hall door banged open, and the both of them turned their heads in time to see Verity marching back across the room with two hefty books cradled in her arms, one lying open atop the other as her eyes scanned the daintily printed words on its pages.

“Right, I looked through all of your books, but I decided that the easiest way to find long words was just to bring the dictionary,” Verity explained, as she ignored the adults and swung the books onto the kitchen table, clambering back onto her seat and scrunching her face up with effort, “and this…encyle-oh…pedya…peedeea.”

oOoOoOo

The day of Arthur’s celebration rolled around, after a couple of wonderful days spent lounging about the flat with Verity and Martin, and even convincing Martin to accompany them to the cinema to watch a film that Verity had been nagging about since the evening of her arrival.

It was an afternoon gathering on the airfield, and _Arthur_ was the one who had arranged it, so there was no need to dress up, but Verity had insisted upon wearing her smartest dress while Martin dressed down into jeans, and Deborah flung his fleece over her own dress; overall, Deborah could honestly say that when they parked outside of the porta-cabin, she was in a thoroughly good mood, tingling almost with the content fluttering that heated her chest and warmed her veins with the movement of her pulse.

As the three of them climbed out of the car, and Deborah locked the doors, she watched over the hood as Verity turned in front of Martin, and dragged her hands down her dress, tweaking it here and there.

“Do I look alright?” Verity asked, pouting slightly as she twirled around, trying to inspect the back of her dress as it whipped around her knees.

“You look beautiful.” Martin answered, smiling indulgently down at her, and patting her awkwardly on the head as he turned back to him with a wide eyed, and very pleased, expression on her face.

“Good, let’s go.” Verity replied shortly, and before Martin could say another word, she had turned on her heel and started skipping towards the porta-cabin, humming a light tune under her breath; she had reached the door and slipped inside before either of them had time to react.

Martin waited for Deborah to round the car before he began walking, slinking close enough for his arm to bump into hers, and then when she felt the soft yet coarse skin of his palm brushing against her knuckles, he wound their fingers together. Deborah smirked fondly up at him, as she leaned into his side and walked at a slow pace with him, tilting her head back to meet his gaze.

“You also look beautiful.” Martin noted, with the chippy little lilt of his voice that he made when he felt awfully proud of himself for remembering to perform a scheduled task; she had no doubt that he probably meant the feeling behind the compliment, but he was still a fool.

“I’m wearing your fleece over my dress.” Deborah retorted wryly, quirking her eyebrow up at him and giving his hand a little squeeze; regardless of the charming shade of his cheeks and the lovely shimmering in her chest, charged from hours of innocent flirting as they listened to Verity clomp about the flat deciding on her outfit, false flattery would get him nowhere.

“And you look beautiful doing it.” Martin continued primly, giving her a curt little nod and tipping his nose just so into the air, as a stubborn smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips; he swayed as he walked, tucking in a little closer to Deborah as they made their sluggish way to the porta-cabin.

“Oh, come on.” Deborah scoffed, nudging him playfully in the side, before softening her tone and leaning her cheek against his shoulder; the man didn’t half know how to win her over, “You can’t be so soppy, I’ve got to get through the whole afternoon.”

“Well, if that’s how you’re feeling…” Martin murmured deviously, leaning down so that his lips were close enough to brush Deborah’s ear, “there’s no reason we couldn’t let Arthur entertain Verity for a bit, and sneak off together when the celebration’s really heating up. The airfield’s mostly empty today…”

“Oh, _naughty_ Captain Crieff.” Deborah gasped in mock astonishment, though she almost ground to a halt and dragged her eyes down Martin’s face, her tongue darting out to wet her lips; oh, she did love it when he was in this kind of mood, “That’s not a bad idea actually…I’ll tell you what…you keep saying such lovely things to me, and I’ll consider your proposition.”

Martin’s only response was to smirk, and to bite down on his bottom lip, tugging gently on Deborah’s hand to get her moving again, as he hummed in pleasurable agreement; perhaps the celebration wouldn’t be too dull after all.

When they reached the porta-cabin, having to break apart so that Deborah could shoulder the door as it jammed in recompense for having admitted her daughter free of impediment, Deborah was surprised to see that it was only Arthur and Verity inside, the both of them crowded around the conjoined desks, which had been cleared and were now covered in plates hugged in tin-foil, a couple already open.

At the sight of them, Verity skipped over to Deborah while Martin took her fleece and proceeded to walk away to hang it and his coat on the stand by the door, paper plate in hand, and tiny little sandwich triangles already munched and stacked atop it.

“Mummy, it’s just Arthur here,” Verity explained, gesturing careless over her shoulder to where Arthur was glancing over his shoulder, and adding the finishing touches in his arrangement of dishes, “so I’ve been helping him sort out the food for later.”

“That’s not all you’ve been doing to the food is it, now?” Deborah replied wryly, placing her hands on her hips and smirking down at the little girl; the effect was lost however, as Verity merely shrugged, and skipped away again, drawn like a magnet to the desks, where she could peek at leisure underneath the tin foil.

“Hi chaps!” Arthur chirped, just as Deborah felt Martin appear as a solid, very warm presence at her shoulder, pressed close enough that had she chosen to lean, he might have toppled like a domino; Arthur was wearing the crinkled look of intense focus that came with his most ‘skilled’ stewarding, “Mum’s not here yet, because she’s picking Herc up from the airport and his flight was delayed. But they’ll be here soon.”

“That’s alright, we can wait.” Martin responded brightly, surreptitiously slipping his arm around Deborah’s waist, and then retracting as he peered around her, towards the pile of his office things that were tucked behind his desk, “I think there are actually some things-”

“You can finish your paperwork another day.” Deborah scolded him lightly, slapping down the hand that was curling around her shoulder as if to propel him towards the undeniable need to work; ignoring Arthur’s curious stare, she whispered in his ear, “If I see you in your desk today, then I won’t be considering anything.”

“Message received.” Martin replied hastily, straightening up as his hands moved as if to smooth out the lapels of a jacket that wasn’t there; he plastered on a cheerful smile, and asked, “Do you need a hand Arthur?”

“Aw, thanks, that would be great.” Arthur sighed gratefully, and strode back to the desks, Martin hot on his heels as Deborah followed more slowly, coming to stand at the end of the desks while Arthur waved his hands over the dishes that definitely looked well searched through by little hands, “I’m not entirely sure what’s in all of these containers, because I didn’t actually cook any of them myself.”

“Oh, thank the lord!” Deborah groaned, meeting Martin’s eyes across the desks, while Arthur carried on oblivious to her relief; a proper caterer was all that was needed to ensure that Arthur’s party actually went the way that he intended it to.

oOoOoOo

It was a few hours before Carolyn arrived, but she did it in a typical fashion; Deborah had commandeered the sofa, which was hers by right, and she was comfortably perched on one end, while Verity sat back with her feet up on the other, a plate of various mini quiches wobbling on her lap. As it was, neither of them looked up too quickly when the door to the porta-cabin flumped open with a crack.

“Oh, you’re all here.” Carolyn huffed as she pulled the door shut behind her, sans Herc, and proceeded to throw her coat over the hook by the door and come to a stop in the centre of the room, “If you need someone to blame for us being late, he’s still outside, fussing over the car, something about efficient use of space…”

“You mean Herc doesn’t stand for your tendency to park wherever you damn well please?” Deborah inquired, adopting a facsimile of surprise and placing her hand over her heart; she glanced at her daughter as the little girl slid from the sofa and scurried to the desks laden with food, but wasn’t too bothered when she heard a light clinking fill the air.

“There are only five regular users of a car park that can hold thirty.” Carolyn retorted blithely, reaching out to grab Arthur’s wheelie chair and park herself on it; Deborah scoffed under her breath, unable to completely muffle a smirk as her sights focused in on Verity reappearing in her peripheral vision, arms outstretched and hands wrapped around a glass, “If I want to park with plenty of room outside my own office, then I will do so.”

“Ms Knapp-Shappey, would you like some of this champagne?” Verity’s high pitched little voice punctuated the otherwise taut atmosphere, and Carolyn glanced down at where the girl was standing smiling brightly at her elbow, with an expression of surprise, “I poured it specially for you.”

“Thank you dear, I think I will.” Carolyn replied politely, receiving the glass from Verity and watching her skip back to the desks, where the clinking started up again; it was amazing, Deborah thought, how soft Carolyn could make herself given the right motivation, not that it ever lasted long, as a moment later, the older woman was glaring at the empty spaces, “Where have Arthur and Martin scuttled off to?”

“They’re in your office debating whether to bring the cakes out with the drinks and nibbles, or to leave them there where it’s cool.” Deborah answered, rolling her eyes as she nodded towards the closed door of Carolyn’s office, and kicked her legs up onto the sofa; it had been twenty minutes already, since she had last seen either man.

“Does it matter?” Carolyn asked, narrowing her eyes at the wooden slab of the door, and sipping on her champagne.

“I try not to delve too far into either man’s mind for fear of losing mine.” Deborah drawled, smirking as Carolyn let out a little exhale that might have been a laugh, if optimism was to be employed.

“A wise decision.” Carolyn agreed, rolling her eyes and settling back into Arthur’s chair, crossing one ankle over the other as she tore her eyes from her office and looked instead to where Verity was pouring another drink.

Just then, the main door swung open again, smoothly this time, and Herc appeared in the space left behind, wrapped in a coat that he must have been using to fight the chill in Switzerland, it was so large, letting the door fall closed behind him.

“Hello all!” Herc announced cheerfully; then he actually took in the lazy set-up, and his brow wrinkled in bewilderment, as he shirked his coat, “Or just you two…I was expecting your gathering to have rather more _gathering_.”

“Excuse me.” Verity piped up, at Herc’s elbow before Deborah even saw her move, champagne glass held in her palms; at the sound, Herc’s expression morphed into one of endeared surprise, and he crouched down so that they were on the same level, wincing slightly as his hand shot out to press at his back, “Would you like some champagne?”

“Oh, thank you, Sweetheart.” Herc exclaimed warmly, beaming as the glass was passed to him, and he then passed it to the other palm and extended his hand for her to shake, “I don’t think we’ve met before; I’m Herc.”

“I’m Verity,” Verity replied curtly, nodding her head politely, before turning to point across the room at Deborah, who was watching with a restrained sense of pride at how grown up her daughter looked; and yet, for all of her manners, she still introduced herself in the same way that she had since she was four, which was perfect really, “and that’s my Mum, over there.”

“Now her I have met.” Herc replied wryly, bending his knees so that he could rise to his full height once again; nevertheless, his head remained pointed downwards, and he gave Verity the full scope of his attention, like the text book depiction of how to function with children.

“Are you Ms Knapp-Shappey’s friend?” Verity inquired unabashedly, never one to waste the chance to interrogate whomever might fall under her radar; she had always been a curious…or rather, nosy child, but since she had decided (to Deborah’s despair) that actually being a detective really was something she wanted to do, she had developed a tendency to collect as much information as possible about everyone she knew, “The one that lives in Switzerland?”

“Yes, I am.” Herc answered, glancing fleetingly over Verity’s shoulder as if to ask Deborah for help; not that she was going to give it, even if he had asked for it with a verbal plea and the promise of compensation.

“Is there a lot of Swiss chocolate there?” Verity asked seriously, narrowing her eyes at him and placing her hands together so that her fingertips met their counterparts, “Or do you not have a lot because you fly away from Switzerland all the time?”

“I, um…” Herc stalled, mouth opening and then closing again as his eyebrows knitted together; Verity was definitely going to get a treat the next day, Deborah mused with a surge of pride, just for making Herc falter as she had never seen him do before. To make it even better, he didn’t even have a chance to reply, as the door to Carolyn’s office clunked open, and Arthur bumbled through it, his arms laden with clumsily stacked cakes.

“Mum, Herc, you’re here.” Arthur noted, as he moved further into the room and heaved more cakes than six people could feasibly eat onto the desks, beside the still highly filled plates of savoury snacks, “Finally!”

“The roads were busy I take it?” Martin greeted them as he followed in Arthur’s footsteps, having to peer around the pile of round biscuit tins that were cradled in his arms; Deborah immediately swung her legs down and strode across the room to take to top of the pile from Martin’s arms, receiving the heavy weight just as Verity whizzed behind her, towards the cakes that Arthur was laying out.

“One would hope that that was the reason.” Carolyn sighed, rolling her eyes; however, she didn’t complain when Herc rolled a chair that he had found up beside hers, and sat just a fraction too close for Deborah to be comfortable with without her back turned and her hands occupied with carefully lowering her tins beside Martin’s.

“Ah…” Martin grimaced sympathetically, then placed one hand on his hip, as he rubbed at the back of his neck and ran his eyes over the desk, squinting as if mentally calculating,  “Verity, you couldn’t help me carry the _rest_ of the cakes out could you?”

“Okay.” Verity chirped, and before Martin could so much as move a muscle, she had vanished into the office; chuckling slightly, he followed her in, leaving the door open behind them.

“Brilliant!” Arthur declared in a business-like fashion, clapping his hands together and surveying the extraordinarily organised nature of his arrangements, a contented smile adorning his lips, “Now we’re all here, we can make a start on the food, and just enjoy each other’s company.”

“I can already see this afternoon going swimmingly.” Deborah drawled, as she crossed the room and passed behind the pair of wheelie chairs; as she passed, she ducked down to mutter in Carolyn’s ear, “Any ideas on how to spice things up?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Carolyn replied tartly, exchanging with Deborah a caustic, nearly tired glance, as she rolled her shoulders back and made herself comfortable, speaking loudly enough that Herc could probably overhear her, “I’ve already plotted one murder today, I can plot another.”

oOoOoOo

The six of them, despite any doubts that Deborah might have had, actually managed to make it through hours without any of them giving up and going home; it couldn’t be called a party, but it was rather nice to be able to mill about and talk to whoever took their fancy, chatting about nothing in particular.

By six in the evening, Arthur was sat in a sort of circle with Carolyn and Herc, while Martin mooched about, and Deborah sat on the sofa with Verity at her side, one arm around her daughter; it was nice, and she had to admit, she was quite enjoying the relaxed hum that resonated throughout her chest and made happy little ripples trickle through her stomach.

At that moment in particular, Deborah was monitoring Verity as the little girl inspected a small glass of champagne that she held in her hands, before she lifted it to her mouth; the liquid barely touched her lips before she thrust the glass away from her, and her face pinched in disgust.

“Ew, no, that’s horrible.” Verity spat, as her face puckered and she smacked her lips to get the taste away; Deborah took the offered glass and placed it on the floor, trying not to laugh lest she be scolded for not taking her daughter’s angst seriously, “I don’t want any more.”

“That’s alright dear,” Deborah assured her, pulling her a little closer to press a kiss to the top of her head; now that that plan was successfully executed, she pointed towards where Arthur was making rounded hand gestures for Herc’s sake, under Carolyn’s despairing scrutiny, “you go and chat.”

No more encouragement was needed for Verity to bound away from the sofa and inject herself into the conversation, popping up between Herc and Carolyn’s chairs and resting her arms on the back of both; her space was filled almost immediately by Martin, whose feet hooked beneath Deborah’s where they lay crossed on the floor, though he remained hunched forwards, leaving barely a few inches between them.

“Are you letting her drink champagne?” Martin inquired, nodding towards where Verity was watching Arthur, rapt with attention; there was no judgement in his voice, and Deborah hadn’t felt guilty, but that didn’t stop her from feeling just a tad defensive all the same, despite how Martin’s words also stirred up a wash of affection for him, and his worrying head.

“Only a sip.” Deborah replied, taking care to sound confident, to show that she knew what she was doing, as she allowed Martin his moment of conspiratorial leaning, and leant forwards, wrists resting on her knees, to meet him, “She didn’t like it.”

“Is that wise?” Martin asked, his eyebrows meeting in the middle as he drew his bottom lip through his teeth; then he seemed to realise what he was saying, and blushed furiously, “I-I’m not questioning your parenting, but, um, given your own disposition…and her age…”

“It’s alright Martin, I’ve got it all worked out.” Deborah explained, letting her eyes linger on her daughter for a second more before she met Martin’s eyes, considering for thr thousandth time what a lovely shade of blue they were, “I read on some website, that what pushes most young people to drink is the taboo that surrounds it; if it’s forbidden, then the moment they turn eighteen, they binge until…well, until they’re as dependant as I was.” She paused and grimaced, but Martin barely flickered, the only sign that something wasn’t right the way that his hand slid across his knees to take her own, “But, if you let children have tiny sips when they’re growing up, then they’ll a) find it disgusting and never want to drink again, and most importantly b) she won’t view alcohol as a taboo, or something amazing that adults have, so she won’t be so desperate to pour it down her throat.”

“Actually, that’s quite clever.” Martin remarked, crinkling his nose, and beginning to stutter apologetically, “I’m sorry I-”

“Don’t apologise.” Deborah told him sternly, holding his gaze to impress upon him the importance of what she was saying; she had thought about this a lot over the last few months, “If you’re planning on staying with me, and with Verity, in a sense, then you need to speak up if you think that something’s wrong. I won’t have my daughter in danger because I did something stupid and you didn’t intervene.”

“Oh…I do plan on staying.” Martin replied, cowed somewhat by her words, he ducked his head and rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, and when he looked up again his eyes seemed to be particularly wide and his face frozen, “So…um…does that mean I have to, well, t-to learn how to do parenting.”

“Well, seeing as by taking on this responsibility you’re agreeing to become a sort of parent, yes.” Deborah answered matter-of-factly, deciding for his sake not to comment on the way that Martin’s hand tightened around hers, or how his breathing seemed to hitch; now, this, they hadn’t talked about.

“Wow…” Martin breathed, then he sucked in a sharp breath, and then exhaled raggedly again, staring at nothing over Deborah’s shoulder; perhaps they should have discussed this…

“Is that okay?” Deborah inquired gently, taking Martin’s other hand in hers, and carefully trying to meet his eyes as they flickered here and there; she wanted Martin to be a properly integrated part of her life, and she now understood that he wanted that too, but there was always the chance that she had made too much of an assumption.

“That’s okay.” Martin said, stilling and letting his gaze fall back onto Deborah’s face; just like that, Deborah could have sworn that it became easier to breathe, and she sighed as Martin shifted on the sofa and brought his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against him, and letting her enjoy being cuddled up with him, his heart thundering beneath her ear.

oOoOoOo

Then there was more mooching, more champagne split between those that drank such things, a sleeping child laid out on the sofa, and somehow, while the others were making quite a bit of noise on the other side of the room, Deborah found herself leaning back against the counter beside Arthur, the both of them holding steaming cups of coffee, and seeking temporary refuge from the frivolities. One would have thought that Deborah would have grown bored or exasperated, but still she was cushioned by a constant humming contentedness.

“This is great isn’t it?” Arthur noted, as he watched the others make the most of the food and drink that he had brought, and have fun just as he had intended; if she wasn’t mistaken, Deborah would have said that there was a settled, almost tangible glow about him.

“I can’t complain.” Deborah replied honestly, turning just slightly so that she was tilted towards him, as she took a sip of her coffee, cherishing how well Arthur had done in perfecting ‘just right’, “Nothing’s on fire yet, so I’d call this a success.”

“Thanks…but I meant this.” Arthur reiterated, extending the hand holding his mug towards their friends; his ecstatic cheer wasn’t quite at its highest peak, and if anything, Arthur seemed almost reflective as he watched the laughter, and then mirrored Deborah’s position, hands wrapped around his mug, “All of us being together and having fun.”

“I suppose.” Deborah agreed thoughtfully; it was nice, actually, despite everything, “Although, I thought that the point of this was to celebrate the fact that we’ll all be together for the foreseeable future.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s brilliant.” Arthur sighed, and then pursed his lips and asked, nudging Deborah’s arm slightly with his elbow, “Hey Deborah?”

“Yes Arthur?” Deborah responded, raising her eyebrows expectantly; patience was a virtue, but learning how to navigate Arthur’s was a lifetime commitment.

“Did you think, when you started working here…what was it, ten years ago?” Arthur trailed off and his eyes wandered about across the ceiling as he clacked his tongue in concentration, tapping his fingers against the sides of his mug.

“Just about, yes; it was shortly after Verity was born.” Deborah supplied for him, smiling wanly in return for his grateful beam; then what she had just said hit her, like a net dipping into her lungs and stealing a gallon or two of air, “God, that’s a long time.”

“I know, it’s amazing.” Arthur agreed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe that so much time had passed between them; Deborah herself was having a hard time truly processing it, “Almost a third of my life.”

“So it is.” Deborah remarked, genuinely surprised yet again by the enormity of what their ramshackle celebration actually signified; she had teased Arthur, but now, she was beginning to understand the awe with which he had prepared for that evening, “A good third?”

“The best third.” Arthur answered without a trace of regret, only a conviction that it would be lovely to possess, but couldn’t be harnessed by anyone else, “It got even better when Martin arrived.”

“Hmm, yes.” Deborah hummed in acknowledgement, peering into the middle distance as an odd haze seemed to fall over her; she could barely remember a time in her life without Martin in it, though she knew that it had happened, “No more horrible Captains, just our annoyingly persistent one.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head and smiled his corroboration, then asked, in an odd tone of voice; it was only after a moment, that Deborah realised this was the first time she had ever heard him venture anywhere near shyness, “Did you ever think we’d end up here? I mean, from where we started.”

“How d’you mean here?” Deborah asked, turning to face him more certainly, and placing her mug down on the counter.

“I mean, you were our first ever pilot, and you’re still with us, and you’re one of my two best friends,” Arthur explained, barrelling over the facts unabashedly, though his hands made round about motions in the air, “and you’re my _oldest_ friend…here is _here_.”

“Oh…” Deborah let out a small sound of surprise, and understanding, and let her eyes fall to her hands; for someone who did all of his thinking externally, Arthur had a talent for making _her_ think, “you know, now that I think about it Arthur, _you_ might just be _my_ oldest friend.”

“Oh, wow.” Arthur chirped, his demeanour brightening a little just at that simply declaration, “That’s brilliant.”

“Quite.” Deborah nodded, and she felt a smile creeping first from the corner of her lips, and up towards her cheek, as she turned from Arthur and leant back against the counter, folding her arms around her waist, “But, in answer to your question…no, I never thought we’d end up here.”

“Oh…” Arthur sighed, the dejection in his tone like a stone lobbed into a pool, only to sink where it should have skipped.

“I’m rather glad we did though.” Deborah continued, her tone filled with warmth as she turned her head back and smiled up at Arthur, taking immense pleasure from the way that his face lit up, and a new breath of life seemed to fill him.

“Oh!” Arthur chimed brightly; taking a moment to bask in his happiness, Deborah sighed, and allowed herself to tilt sideways, until she could rest her head on the point just below his shoulder.

Yes, she was very glad that things had turned out the way that they had.

oOoOoOo

Her chat with Arthur had got Deborah introspecting, and once she had started, as she wafted from person to person, and spent a few moments perched on the edge of the sofa watching her daughter’s chest rise and fall, it became very hard to stop.

It really had been a long time; more than a decade since she had joined MJN, met Arthur and Carolyn…more than half a decade since she had met Martin…the thought of him now was like a whiff of enchanting, wonderful, affectionately clumsy perfume of the most beautiful, familiar flavour…to try and think of him then, on that first day, those first nine months…impossible.

Deborah could remember the events, remember the days, remember the conversations that they had had, of cats and film stars and lemons, and a mess of things that only Martin could instil in her…but the feelings…

She knew logically that at one point she could barely stand to be in the same room as him, but try as she might, Deborah couldn’t even muster the slightest inkling, or delve into the darkest memories, for a hint of disdain, or the pain that he had once put her through…all that she could focus on, the only thing that really came to mind, that stuck like a stamp at the forefront of her psyche, was the image of Martin on his knees, hands on hers, gazing into her eyes, and her heart melting at the act.

That was after a fight, Deborah was sure of it, but her treacherous mind was telling her that that memory was one of romance, of her falling in love with him…and as that thought danced its way through her mind, she was almost bowled over by the memory of them laughing, of Martin taking her breath away and the words ‘I wanted to be an aeroplane’ singing out like a melody.

Then there were arms around her, and Deborah surged back to awareness to find herself in pure comfort, Martin at her back, pointing her towards where Herc and Arthur were fussing about with chairs, and Carolyn was scolding them, and Verity was blinking blearily on the sofa, rubbing her eyes with hands curled into fists. It was perfect, and could exist without them for just a moment more.

“Hey, Martin.” Deborah whispered, as she tilted back her head and cherished the sensation of his cheek against hers, as he held her close and hummed in her ear, “Can you remember, a long, long time ago, when we weren’t even friends?”

“I…only as a sort of…like a hazy dream.” Martin started, then stopped, then started again, murmuring as if through a bewildered, magical trance, as he swayed ever so slightly on his heels, taking Deborah with him, “Like, l-like one of those movies you hate when you’re watching it, but looking back, quite like the memories.”

“We did have fun though, didn’t we?” Deborah sighed, lifting her hand to trace her fingers against Martins’ cheek, letting her eyes flutter closed as the movement brought them closer together, filtering out the rest of the world for just a moment.

It was suffocating, beautifully suffocating, how much she loved him…how loved she felt…happy…that was it…she was happy enough that she could have drowned in it.

“We could still have fun.” Martin remarked quietly, a devious edge to his voice that made her grin, and smirk, and pull away just far enough to place a small, but lingering and sturdy kiss to his cheek.

“Oh, absolutely.” Deborah drawled, barely louder than a breath, “I demand it be so.”

It was clear that Martin had something to say, but he never got to say it, as he was interrupted; no matter though, they had time.

“Alright you lot, settle down or I won’t speak at all.” Carolyn announced, raising her hands into the air and glaring pointedly at Deborah and Martin, as the others were all muttering amongst themselves, but otherwise seated.

Deborah slipped from Martin’s hold, but took his hand and led them to the sofa, where she dropped into Martin’s arms, and pulled Verity into hers.

“Aw, Mum, you have to speak.” Arthur insisted from where he swung gently from side to side on his wheelie chair, “That’s the whole reason we’re here.”

“Well, that and the promise of cakes galore.” Deborah muttered, loud enough to make Verity giggle, and grasp at her arms, snuggling closer and forgetting momentarily that ten year olds didn’t do that anymore.

“Then sit down, and stop talking.” Carolyn instructed him, despite the fact that she was the only one standing; when all eyes were on her, she cleared her throat, and spoke like a queen to her subjects, “The first thing that I would like to announce, is that at the start of this week MJN ceased to be a loss making company; our flight to Mumbai actually earned us a nice profit, which means…the company is finally making money!”

“Congratulations, all of you.” Herc interrupted, bringing his hands together once, which was enough to have Arthur and Verity descend into a brief round of applause, before he raised his eyebrows and asked Carolyn, in that poking, prodding way that only he had mastered, “And who was responsible for this?”

“Oh, shush!” Carolyn scolded him, batting a hand in his direction; nevertheless, she took a deep breath, and spoke calmly, “Now, as much as this pains me to say, this wasn’t entirely my doing. If it weren’t for Martin’s…Martin’s…”

“Martin’s genius.” Martin suggested despairingly when no adjective came, sighing and shaking his head, and scowling, Deborah was sure, “If it weren’t for Martin’s genius-”

“Yes thank you.” Carolyn said through gritted teeth, forcing a pleasant smile as if that actually mattered to her crew, “If it weren’t for that, we never would have had a scheme in place to work from. Furthermore, our success has been largely due to Deborah’s…”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘talent’.” Deborah interjected brightly, quirking an eyebrow at the other woman; even if she did say so herself, she was rather proud of how well her marketing had done in the big bad world.

“Deborah’s unusually hard work,” Carolyn continued as if Deborah hadn’t spoken, remaining resolute, “we’ve reached clients that we’d have never have reached before. So, to conclude-”

“And of course, enough can never be said about Arthur’s phenomenal stewarding, can it?” Deborah cut in again, before Carolyn could forget (albeit deliberately) her son’s…efforts; she met Arthur’s eye across the room, and smiled proudly at him, receiving a look of self-assured wonder in return.

“No, of course not.” Carolyn acknowledged resignedly, nodding to Arthur and even smiling wanly when she saw the look on his face, “Arthur has been as cheerfully helpful as he has ever been.”

“I’m just doing my bit, like everyone else.” Arthur shrugged, which was the perfect amount of pride for someone who had maintained the same standard of work throughout the decade that he had been working at all; if nothing else, his teas and coffees were always improving.

“Quite.” Carolyn agreed, then she clapped her hands together and sighed, giving the lot of them one last sweeping glance, “Well, that was all I had to say on the matter.”

“Really?” Martin asked, leaning forwards as he teased, bringing him closer to Deborah, and making it easier to raise his eyebrows expectantly at Carolyn.

“Not even a little bit more?” Deborah joined in, smirking at the resignation on Carolyn’s face as she rolled her eyes and pursed her lips at them.

“You’re not just a tiny bit thrilled?” Martin concluded for her; Deborah’s chest was so awash with heated fluttering that she couldn’t have done anything to hide her smile or the light in her eyes.

“Oh, fine.” Carolyn cursed, throwing her hands into the air; then her tone softened imperceptibly, and it couldn’t have been detected, but Deborah was sure that there was some affection in her voice, “Well done all of you…you’ve been surprisingly good employees these past few months.”

“It’s been our pleasure.” Deborah drawled, settling back into Martin’s embrace, making sure that she didn’t let Verity topple in her still dazed state; to her own surprise, she meant every word.

“May I say a few words?” Herc inquired, sitting forwards in her chair as Carolyn returned to hers, and could be heard exhaling with such a vigour that she might have been giving up the will to live.

“It won’t be a few.” Deborah muttered in Verity’s ear, listening to the little girl giggle.

“Yes Herc, that would be lovely.” Martin answered more loudly, and far more pointedly, as if her were trying to impress upon Deborah the importance of being nice to the man that had housed him for two weeks; it was a losing battle that he would never stop fighting.

“Thank you Martin.” Herc replied gratefully, nodding politely as he straightened his back, and spoke like the only sober patron in a bar filled with tipsy customers, “I know that I may live far away, but I’d just like to say that I’m extremely impressed with everything that the four of you have done as a part of MJN; for such a small airline, in such dire circumstances, your perseverance, and your dedication, to the company as well as each other, is truly inspiring.”

“Oh, what rot.” Carolyn scoffed, but there was no concealing the way that her eyes lingered over Herc as he glanced around at her, and scrunched his nose in her direction.

“I wish you all the best for the future, and you have my best wishes for years to come.” Herc concluded, pronouncing every word as if it were a dagger against the stubbornness that was Carolyn’s heart.

“Yay!” Verity was the first to let out a cheer, clapping her hands together as Deborah rolled her eyes, unable to muster a sarcastic response to what even she could admit, was a rather lovely sentiment.

“That was brilliant!” Arthur declared, his joy written like a book over the pages of his cheeks, radiating from him and heating every inch of the room.

“Was it Arthur?” Deborah asked wanly, though she knew that she was smiling, and couldn’t bring herself to stop; perfect was the word that she would use, if she hadn’t been afraid of sounding ridiculous to her own ears, “Was it brilliant?”

“I think that _we_ are quite brilliant actually.” Martin remarked, and though he was referring to all of them, Deborah couldn’t help but note how he tilted his head down just a pinch, or how his lips brushed past her ear and his arms tightened fleetingly around her waist.

“Oh, don’t you start.” Carolyn scoffed, shaking her head at the indignity of it all, though she wasn’t putting up much of a fight, as she lay her hand over her eyes.

“Don’t you agree?” Martin inquired, and he _was_ talking to her, Deborah realised, as his voice reached that charming, sweet tenor, the hushed tones that were swapped in their more intimate moments, when they talked about the future, or about them, “Don’t you think that everything’s going to be brilliant?”

“I suppose I could allow a bit of brilliance,” Deborah remarked softly, as she rested her head down against Martin’s shoulder and made herself remember just exactly where she was, and exactly who she was surrounded by, only to inhale the perfection of the moment, “just to see what it’s like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I've finished. This is a huge, daunting moment for me. Wow.
> 
> Although, not quite. I've stopped this fic here, because 50 chapters is a good place to wrap it up.
> 
> BUT I promised more, and I plan to write their lives, and all the bits you've been waiting for, so this is the plan - I already have it in mind to cover the marriage and kids bit that is mentioned in the first fic. Never fear.
> 
> BUT- there is more. If there is something you want to see, in the future for them (their lives from now), in Deborah's past (med school, husbands, etc), or anything within this fic that might need exploration (it was mentioned months ago about Molokai christmas) - tell me


End file.
